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 beard, 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 ; 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 Or the wind plays, sadly, along the walls 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, 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! For, they tell me that the cloud of pain 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,— 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 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, 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 ;- And thy red faulchion gathering rust! Sleep, soldier, sleep!-thy warfare o'er,- |