V. I SOMETIMES hold it half a sin To put in words the grief I feel; For words, like nature, half reveal And half conceal the Soul within. But, for the unquiet heart and brain, The sad mechanic exercise Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. In words, like weeds, I 'll wrap me o'er, Like coarsest clothes against the cold; But that large grief which these enfold Is given in outline and no more. VI. ONE writes, that Other friends remain,' That Loss is common to the race ' And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make O father, wheresoe'er thou be, That pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor,-while thy head is bow'd, Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, here to-day, Or here to-morrow will he come. O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father's chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking this will please him best,' She takes a riband or a rose ; For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn'd, the curse Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, Or kill'd in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? To her, perpetual maidenhood, And unto me, no second friend. VII. DARK house, by which once more I stand Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more- And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. |