And icy clods above it rolled, While fierce the tempests beat- Into my narrow place of rest. There through the long, long summer hours The golden light should lie, And thick young herbs and groups of flowers Stand in their beauty by. The oriole should build and tell His love-tale close beside my cell; The idle butterfly Should rest him there, and there be heard The housewife bee and humming-bird. And what if cheerful shouts at noon Or songs of maids, beneath the moon And what if, in the evening light, Betrothed lovers walk in sight Of my low monument? I would the lovely scene around Might know no sadder sight cr sound. I know, I know I should not see Nor would its brightness shine for me, But if, around my place of sleep, The friends I love should come to weep, Soft airs, and song, and light, and bloom, These to their softened hearts should bear The thought of what has been, And speak of one who cannot share The gladness of the scene; Whose part, in all the pomp that fills The circuit of the summer hills, Is-that his grave is green; And deeply would their hearts rejoice To hear again his living voice. A SONG OF PITCAIRN'S ISLAND. COME, take our boy, and we will go Before our cabin door; The winds shall bring us, as they blow, Songs that were made of yore: I'll sing, in his delighted ear, The island lays thou lov'st to hear. And thou, while stammering I repeat, Thy country's tongue shall teach ; 'Tis not so soft, but far more sweet Thou cam'st to woo me to be thine, I knew thy meaning-thou didst praise My eyes, my locks of jet; Ah! well for me they won thy gazeBut thine were fairer yet! I'm glad to see my infant wear Thy soft blue eyes and sunny hair, And when my sight is met By his white brow and blooming cheek, I feel a joy I cannot speak. Come talk of Europe's maids with me, Whose necks and cheeks, they tell, |