And now farewell!-Time unrevoked has run
His wonted course, yet what I wish'd is done.
By Contemplation's help, not sought in vain,
I seem to have lived my childhood o'er again;
To have renew'd the joys that once were mine,
Without the sin of violating thine;
And, while the wings of Fancy still are free,
And I can view this mimic show of thee,
Time has but half succeeded in his theft-
Thyself removed, thy power to soothe me left.
Thoughts of Home.
A DEATH-BED COMPOSITION.*
THOUGHTS of home! how sad they twine
Round this exiled heart of mine;
My cheek hath felt for many years
The scalding of those parting tears;
And on my spirit ever dwells
The burden of our last farewells.
Words of home! how welcome here,
Oft to strengthen, oft to cheer;
Fix'd by love beyond the range
Of the scatt'ring hand of change;
But the hearts that gave them worth
Never more shall meet on earth.
Scenes of home! how oft they rise,
Back'd by Memory's tinted skies;
Like island-gems on Ocean's breast
Glows every spot that love hath blest;
Till darkness rises o'er the deep,
And bids the exiled gazer weep.
*I take this opportunity of paying a tribute of respect to the worth and genius of my dear friend, Joseph Millbank. These were, I believe, the last words, certainly the last verses, he wrote, a short time before his death, at Darebin Creek, Melbourne, October 6, 1860.-EDITOR.
The Dying Boy to the Sloe Blossom.
BEFORE thy leaves thou comest once more,
White blossom of the sloe!
Thy leaves will come as heretofore;
But this poor heart, its troubles o'er,
Will then lie low.
Sweet violets in the budding grove,
Peep where the glad waves run;
The wren below, the thrush above,
Of bright to-morrow's joy and love
Sing to the sun.
And where the rose-leaf, ever bold,
Hears bees chant hymns to God,
The breeze-bow'd palm, moss'd o'er with gold,
Smiles on the well in summer cold,
Well, lay me by my brother's side,
Where late we stood and wept ;
For I was stricken when he died-
I felt the arrow as he sigh'd
His last, and slept.
WHAT matters it, though spring-time
Upon the earth is glowing!
What, though a thousand tender flowers
On the garden beds are blowing?
What matters it though pleasant birds
Among the leaves are singing;
And a myriad lives, each passing hour,
From mother-earth are springing!
What matters it! For one bright flower
Is pale, before them lying;
And one dear life, one precious life,
Is number'd with the dying.
Oh! spring may come, and spring may go ;
Flowers, sunshine, cannot cheer them:
This living heart, this bright young life,
Will be no longer near them.
Two lights there were within the house,
Like angels round them moving;
Oh! must these two be parted now,
So lovely and so loving!
No longer on the same soft couch
Their pleasant rest be taking!
No longer by each other's smiles
Be greeted at their waking!
No longer, by each other's side
Over one book be bending!
Take thy last look, thy last embrace,
That joy, that life is ending.
Henceforth thou wilt be all alone;
What shalt thou do, poor weeper?-
Oh, human love! oh, human woe!
Is there a pang yet deeper?
Ah! yes, the eyes perceive no more ;
The last dear word is spoken;
The hand returns no pressure now;
Heart, heart, thou must be broken!
Can it live on without that love
For which its pulse beat ever?
Alas that loving, trusting hearts
Must ache, and bleed, and sever!
Child, cease thy murmuring; God is by
To unseal that mortal prison.
Mother, look up; for, like our Lord,
Thy blessed one is risen:
Raise thy bow'd head, poor bruisëd reed;
Hope comes to the believing.
Father, be strong, be strong in faith;
The dead, the dead is living!
Even from outward things draw peace;
The long night-watch is ended;
The morning sun upriseth now
In new day-glory splendid.
So, through the night of mortal life,
Your angel one hath striven:
The eternal suns shine not so bright
As the redeem'd in heaven.
To join the spirits of the just
Your chosen hath departed:
Be comforted, be comforted,
Ye bruised and broken-hearted!
IF I had thought thou couldst have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou couldst mortal be:
It never through my mind had past
The time would e'er be o'er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou shouldst smile no more!
And still upon that face I look,
And think 'twill smile again;
And still the thought I will not brook,
That I must look in vain !
But when I speak-thou dost not say
What thou ne'er left'st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may,
Sweet Mary! thou art dead!
If thou wouldst stay e'en as thou art,
All cold and all serene-
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been!
While e'en thy chill bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there I lay thee in thy grave-
And I am now alone!
I do not think, where'er thou art,
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart
In thinking, too, of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light, ne'er seen before,
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
Death of Babe Christabel.
In this dim world of clouding cares,
We rarely know, till wilder'd eyes
See white wings lessening up the skies,
The angels with us unawares.
And thou hast stolen a jewel, Death!
Shall light thy dark up like a star,
A beacon kindling from afar
Our light of love, and fainting faith.
Through tears it gleams perpetually,
And glitters through the thickest glooms,
Till the eternal morning comes
To light us o'er the jasper sea.
With our best branch in tenderest leaf,
We've strewn the way our Lord doth come;
And, ready for the harvest home,
reapers bind our ripest sheaf.
Our beautiful bird of light hath fled:
Awhile she sat with folded wings-
Sang round us a few hoverings-
Then straightway into glory sped.
And white-wing'd angels nurture her;
With heaven's white radiance robed and crown'd,
And all love's purple glory round,
She summers on the hills of myrrh.
Through childhood's morning-land, serene
She walk'd betwixt us twain, like love;
While, in a robe of light above,
Her better angel walk'd unseen.
Till life's highway broke bleak and wild;
Then, lest her starry garments trail
In mire, heart bleed, and courage fail,
The angel's arms caught up the child.
Her wave of life hath backward roll'd
To the great ocean; on whose shore
We wander up and down, to store
Some treasures of the times of old :
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