And then my vow is hard to keep,

For it were a joy, indeed, to weep!

For I feel as men feel when moonlight falls
Amid old cathedral aisles;

Or the wind plays, sadly, along the walls
Of lonely and forsaken halls,

That we knew in their day of smiles;

Or as one who hears, amid foreign flowers,

A tune he had learnt in his mother's bowers.

But I may not and I dare not weep,

Lest the vision pass away,

And the vigils that I love to keep
Be broken up, by the fevered sleep

That leaves me-with the day

Like one who has travelled far, to the spot

Where his home should be-and finds it not !

Yet then, like the incense of many

flowers,

Rise pleasant thoughts to me;

36

ACROSS THE WAVES-AWAY AND FAR.

For I know, from thy dwelling in eastern bowers,

That thy spirit has come, in those silent hours,
To meet me over the sea;

And I feel, in my soul, the fadeless truth

Of her whom I loved in early youth.

Like hidden streams,-whose quiet tone

Is unheard in the garish day,

That utter a music all their own,

When the night-dew falls, and the lady moon

Looks out to hear them play,

I knew not half thy gentle worth,

Till grief drew all its music forth.

We shall not meet on earth again!

And I would have it so ;

For, they tell me that the cloud of pain
Has flung its shadow o'er thy brain,
And touched thy looks with woe;

And I have heard that storm and shower

Have dimmed thy loveliness, my flower!

I would not look upon thy tears,—
For I have thee in my heart,

Just as thou wert, in those blessed years
When we were, both, too young for fears
That we should ever part;

And I would not aught should mar the spell,
The picture nursed so long and well!

I love to think on thee, as one

With whom the strife is o'er;

And feel that I am journeying on,

Wasted, and weary, and alone,

To join thee on that shore

Where thou-I know-wilt look for me,

And I, for ever, be with thee!

THE DEAD TRUMPETER.

AFTER A VIGNETTE PICTURE, BY HORACE VERNET.

WAKE, soldier, wake!-thy war-horse waits,
To bear thee to the battle back ;-

Thou slumberest at a foeman's gates ;-
Thy dog would break thy bivouac ;—
Thy plume is trailing in the dust,

And thy red faulchion gathering rust!

Sleep, soldier, sleep!-thy warfare o'er,-
Not thine own bugle's loudest strain
Shall ever break thy slumbers more,
With summons to the battle-plain;
A trumpet-note more loud and deep
Must rouse thee from that leaden sleep!

Thou need'st nor helm nor cuirass, now,
-Beyond the Grecian hero's boast,—
Thou wilt not quail thy naked brow,
Nor shrink before a myriad host,-
For head and heel alike are sound,
A thousand arrows cannot wound!

Thy mother is not in thy dreams,
With that wild, widowed look she wore
The day-how long to her it seems !—
She kissed thee, at the cottage door,
And sickened at the sounds of joy
That bore away her only boy!

Sleep, soldier!-let thy mother wait,
To hear thy bugle on the blast;

Thy dog, perhaps, may find the gate,

And bid her home to thee, at last :

He cannot tell a sadder tale

Than did thy clarion, on the gale,

When last-and far away—she heard its lingering

echos fail!