A Death-Scene.

“O day! he cannot die When thou so fair art shining! O Sun, in such a glorious sky, So tranquilly declining;

He cannot leave thee now, While fresh west winds are blowing, And all around his youthful brow Thy cheerful light is glowing!

Edward, awake, awake-- The golden evening gleams Warm and bright on Arden’s lake-- Arouse thee from thy dreams!

Beside thee, on my knee, My dearest friend, I pray That thou, to cross the eternal sea, Wouldst yet one hour delay:

I hear its billows roar-- I see them foaming high; But no glimpse of a further shore Has blest my straining eye.

Believe not what they urge Of Eden isles beyond; Turn back, from that tempestuous surge, To thy own native land.

It is not death, but pain That struggles in thy breast-- Nay, rally, Edward, rouse again; I cannot let thee rest!”

One long look, that sore reproved me For the woe I could not bear-- One mute look of suffering moved me To repent my useless prayer:

And, with sudden check, the heaving Of distraction passed away; Not a sign of further grieving Stirred my soul that awful day.

Paled, at length, the sweet sun setting; Sunk to peace the twilight breeze: Summer dews fell softly, wetting Glen, and glade, and silent trees.

Then his eyes began to weary, Weighed beneath a mortal sleep; And their orbs grew strangely dreary, Clouded, even as they would weep.

But they wept not, but they changed not, Never moved, and never closed; Troubled still, and still they ranged not-- Wandered not, nor yet reposed!

So I knew that he was dying-- Stooped, and raised his languid head; Felt no breath, and heard no sighing, So I knew that he was dead.

SONG.

The linnet in the rocky dells, The moor-lark in the air, The bee among the heather bells That hide my lady fair:

The wild deer browse above her breast; The wild birds raise their brood; And they, her smiles of love caressed, Have left her solitude!

I ween, that when the grave’s dark wall Did first her form retain, They thought their hearts could ne’er recall The light of joy again.

They thought the tide of grief would flow Unchecked through future years; But where is all their anguish now, And where are all their tears?

Well, let them fight for honour’s breath, Or pleasure’s shade pursue-- The dweller in the land of death Is changed and careless too.

And, if their eyes should watch and weep Till sorrow’s source were dry, She would not, in her tranquil sleep, Return a single sigh!

Blow, west-wind, by the lonely mound, And murmur, summer-streams-- There is no need of other sound To soothe my lady’s dreams.