30 THE PARTING. The moon is forth,-but sad and pale, As though she wept and waited, still, For him she never more shall hail, The breeze is up,-the sail unfurled !— In vain!-'tis moonlight in the world, But Ellen's light is set! The bark is tossing in the bay, The streamers point away-away! One kiss of lips as wan and cold As life to them shall, henceforth, be; One glance-the glance that makes us old, Of utter agony; One throb-the bitterest and the last, Awakening, but to deaden, pain, In hearts that, when that pang is past, Shall never ache again ; And the loosed chord and broken bowl Lie at hope's fountain, in the soul! WRITTEN AT ROUEN. " THE Seine is like a belt of gold,— Beneath an autumn sky, That floats, in many a crimson fold, Like a banner hung on high! The town hangs darkly o'er the stream, Where lights and shadows play, While wave on wave-like dream on dream,— Smile, as they glide away! 32 WRITTEN AT ROUEN. And here I stand-as here I stood, How many years ago! When life danced onward, like the flood, With music in its flow! But now, my breast-like yonder dome, Where sleeps the Lion-heart, Is half a temple-half a tomb, But has no earthly part! 6 My spirit keeps the trace, like thee, Of many a lost parade, Dreams of the soul's young chivalry, Like thee, dark town!-like thee, in all Yet brightened, still, by lights that fall From heaven,-like thy blue mountains! ACROSS THE WAVES-AWAY AND FAR. Tu pudica, tu proba, Perambulabis astra, sidus aureum. HORAT. ACROSS the waves-away and far, My spirit turns to thee; I love thee as men love a star, The brightest where a thousand are, Sadly and silently, With love unstained by hopes or fears, Too deep for words-too pure for tears! 34 ACROSS THE WAVES AWAY AND FAR. My heart is tutored not to weep; Calm, like the calm of even, Where grief lies hushed, but not asleep, Hallows the hours I love to keep For only thee and heaven : Too far and fair to aid the birth Of thoughts that have a taint of earth! And yet, the days for ever gone,— When thou wert as a bird, Living 'mid sun and flowers alone, And singing in so soft a tone As I never since have heard, Will make me grieve that birds, and things So beautiful, have ever wings! And there are hours in the lonely night When I seem to hear thy calls, Faint as the echos of far delight, And dreamy and sad as the sighing flight Of distant waterfalls ; |