Yet while thy place of weeping still Its lone memorial keeps, While on thy name, 'midst wood and hill, The quiet sunshine sleeps, And touches, in each graven line, Of reverential thought a sign; Can I, while yet these tokens wear Think of the love embodied there, A perish'd thing, the joy and flower Not so!-I will not bow me so, To thoughts that breathe despair! A loftier faith we need below, Life's farewell words to bear. Mother and child!-Your tears are past Surely your hearts have met at last! THE GRAVE OF A POETESS.* "Ne me plaignez pas-si vous saviez Combien de peines ce tombeau m'a épargnées!' " I STOOD beside thy lowly grave ;— And music, in the river-wave, Pass'd with a lulling sound. * Extrinsic interest has lately attached to the fine scenery of Woodstock, near Kilkenny, on account of its having been the last residence of the author of 'Psyche.' Her grave is one of many in the church-yard of the village. The river runs smoothly by. The ruins of an ancient abbey, that have been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.-Tales by the O'Hara Family. All happy things that love the sun And a glad murmur seem'd to run Fresh leaves were on the ivy-bough And mournful grew my heart for thee, Mournful, that thou wert slumbering low, With a dread curtain drawn Between thee and the golden glow Of this world's vernal dawn. Parted from all the song and bloom The bird, the insect on the wing, But then, ev'n then a nobler thought my vain sadness came; O'er Th' immortal spirit woke, and wrought Within my thrilling frame. Surely on lovelier things, I said, Than all that round our pathway shed The shadows of the tomb are here, Yet beautiful is earth! What seest thou then where no dim fear, No haunting dream hath birth? Here a vain love to passing flowers Thou hast left sorrow in thy song, A voice not loud, but deep! Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground And joy the poet's eye. |