XL. But thee that breath had touch'd not; thee, nor him, The true in all things found!--and thou wert blest Like armour to thy bosom !-thou hadst kept XLI. So didst thou pass on brightly !—but for her, Next in that path, how may her doom be spoken! -All-merciful! to think that such things were, And are, and seen by men with hearts unbroken! To think of that fair girl, whose path had been So strew'd with rose-leaves, all one fairy scene! And whose quick glance came ever as a token Of hope to drooping thought, and her glad voice As a free bird's in spring, that makes the woods rejoice! XLII. And she to die!-she lov'd the laughing earth Of Time and Death below,-blight, shadow, dull decay! XLIII. Could this change be?-the hour, the scene, where last I saw that form, came floating o'er my mind: -A golden vintage-eve ;—the heats were pass'd, Her father sat, where gleam'd the first faint star XLIV. And now-oh God!-the bitter fear of death, The sore amaze, the faint o'ershadowing dread, Glowing with joy, but silent!—still they smil❜d, XLV. Alas! that earth had all too strong a hold, Too fast, sweet Inez! on thy heart, whose bloom The hours which follow. There was one, with whom, Young as thou wert, and gentle, and untried, Thus gathering, life grew so intensely dear, That all thy slight frame shook with its cold mortal fear! XLVI. No aid!-thou too didst pass!—and all had pass'd, The fearful-and the desperate-and the strong! Some like the bark that rushes with the blast, Some like the leaf swept shiveringly along, And some as men, that have but one more field To fight, and then may slumber on their shield, Therefore they arm in hope. But now the throng Roll'd on, and bore me with their living tide, Ev'n as a bark wherein is left no power to guide. XLVII. Wave swept on wave. We reach'd a stately square, Deck'd for the rites. An altar stood on high, No fair young firstling of the flock to die, As when before their God the Patriarchs stood? -Look down! man brings thee, Heaven! his brother's guiltless blood! XLVIII. Hear its voice, hear!-a cry goes up to thee, From the stain'd sod ;-make thou thy judgment known The fear that walks at midnight-give the moan XLIX. Sounds of triumphant praise !-the mass was sung-Voices that die not might have pour'd such strains! Through Salem's towers might that proud chant have rung, When the Most High, on Syria's palmy plains, Had quell'd her foes!-so full it swept, a sea Of loud waves jubilant, and rolling free! -Oft when the wind, as through resounding fanes, Some deep tone brings me back the music of that hour. |