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Yet, while thy place of weeping still
Its lone memorial keeps,
The quiet sunshine sleeps,
Can I, while yet these tokens wear
The impress of the dead,
As of a vision fled ?
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 pastSurely your hearts have met at last !
GRAVE OF A POETESS.'
“Ne me plaignez pas — si vous saviez
I stood beside thy lowly grave;
Spring odours breathed around,
Pass'd with a lulling sound.
In the bright air glanced by,
Through the soft azure sky.
That fringed the ruins near ;
Their sweetness couldst not hear.
And mournful grew my heart for thee,
Thou in whose woman's mind,
The light of song was shrined.
* 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 has been partially converted into a church, reverently throw their mantle of tender shadow over it.
Tales by the O'Hara Family.
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
Thou wouldst have loved so well, To thee the sunshine round thy tomb
Was but a broken spell.
The bird, the insect on the wing,
In their bright reckless play,
And thou wert pass'd away!
But then, ev'n then, a nobler thought
O’er my vain sadness came;
Within my thrilling frame.
Surely on lovelier things, I said,
Thou must have look'd ere now, Than all that round our pathway shed
Odours and hues below.
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 gav'st—but where thou art, The sway is not with changeful hours,
There love and death must part.
Thou hast left sorrow in thy song,
A voice not loud, but deep!
How often didst thou weep!
Where couldst thou fix on mortal ground
Thy tender thoughts and high ?-
And joy the poet's eye.
When darkness from the vainly-doting sight,
Covers its beautiful ! “Wheresoever you are, or in what state soever you be, it sufficeth me you are mine. Rachel wept, and would not be comforted, because her children were no more. And that, indeed, is the remediless sorrow, and none else!”—From a letter of Arabella Stuart's to her husband.—See Curiosities of Literature.
Death !— what, is death a lock'd and treasured thing,
“ And if you remember of old, I dare die.-Consider what the world would conceive, if I should be violently enforced to do it.”
Fragments of her Letters.
In the sudden flow of a plaintive lay.
And loved when they should hate-like thee, Imelda. The tale of Imelda is related in Sismondi's Histoire des Republiques Italiennes. Vol. iii. p. 443.
NOTE 5. Father of ancient waters, roll! “ Father of waters," the Indian name for the Mississippi.
NOTE 6. And to the Fairy's fountain in the glade. A beautiful fountain near Domreni, believed to be haunted by fairies, and a favourite resort of Jeanne d'Arc in her childhood.
Was she, the Lady from the Danube side. The Princess Pauline Schwartzenberg. The story of her fate is beautifully related in L'Allemagne. Vol. iii. p. 336.