He turned him to visions of future years,
The rainbow's hues were round him;
And a father's bodings-a mother's tears-
Might not weigh with the hopes that crowned them.
That mother's cheek is far paler now
Than when she last caressed him:
There's an added gloom on that father's brow,
Since the hour when last he blessed him.
Oh! that all human hopes should prove
Like the flowers that will fade to-morrow;
And the cankering fears of anxious love
Ever end in ruth and sorrow.
He left his home with a swelling sail,
Of fame and fortune dreaming,-
With a spirit as free as the vernal gale,
Or the penon above him streaming.
He hath reached his goal;-by a distant wave,
'Neath a sultry sun they've laid him;
And stranger forms bent o'er his grave,
When the last sad rites were paid him.
He should have died in his own loved land,
With friends and kinsmen near him:
Not have withered thus on a foreign strand,
With no thought, save heaven, to cheer him.
But what recks it now? Is his sleep less sound
In the port where the wild winds swept him,
Than if home's green turf his grave had bound,
Or the hearts he loved had wept him?
Then why repine? Can he feel the rays
That pestilent sun sheds o'er him?
Or share the grief that may cloud the days
Of the friends who now deplore him?
No-his bark's at anchor-its sails are furled-
It hath 'scaped the storm's deep chiding;
And safe from the buffeting waves of the world,
In a haven of peace is riding.
Is known to us only as the author of the following exquisite piece. It displays the true spirit of poetry.
MY BROTHER'S GRAVE.
BENEATH the chancelled hallowed stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words, upon thy rough stone graven,
Thy name- -thy birth-thy youth declare-
Thy innocence-thy hopes of heaven,
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery o'er my brother's grave!
The place is silent. Rarely sound
Is heard these ancient walls around,
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street;
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell,
From neighbouring fort or citadel;
No sound of human toil or strife
In death's lone dwelling speaks of life,
Or breaks the silence still and deep
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known.
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,
And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on the sabbath-day;
And passing through the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.
But when the sweet-toned Sabbath-chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer and thanks and bended knees;
When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial-stone?
What form, in priestly meek array,
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up,
To bless the sacramental cup?
Full well I know that reverend form,
And if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee, though the worm,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed.
That sire who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lonely grave.
It is not long since thou wert wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
This altar, that baptismal font,
These stones which now thy dust conceal,
The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul;
On these thy spirit loved to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control.
My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet!
How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget!
My soul was then as thine is now,
Unstained by sin, unstung by pain;
Peace smiled on each unclouded brow-
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
How blithely then we hailed the ray
Which hushered in the Sabbath-day!
How lightly then our footsteps trod
Yon pathway to the house of God!
For souls in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallowed shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.
I feel not now as then I felt;
The sunshine of my heart is o'er; The spirit now is changed which dwelt Within me, in the days of yore.
But thou wert snatched, my brother, hence
In all thy guileless innocence;
One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee,
In reverential piety,-
(For childish faults forgiveness crave,)—
The next beamed brightly on thy grave.
The crowd of which thou late wert one,
Now throngs across thy burial stone;
Rude footsteps trample on the spot,
Where thou liest mouldering, not forgot;
And some few gentler bosoms weep
In silence o'er thy last long sleep.
I stood not by thy feverish bed,
I looked not on thy glazing eye,
Nor gently lulled thy aching head,
Nor viewed thy dying agony!
I felt not what my parents felt,—
The doubt-the terror--the distress ;-
Nor vainly for my brother knelt ;-
My soul was spared that wretchedness:
One sentence told me in a breath,
My brother's illness and his death!
And days of mourning glided by,
And brought me back my gaiety;
For soon in childhood's wayward heart
Doth crushed affection cease to smart.
Again I joined the sportive crowd
Of boyish playmates wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery;
No more I wept my brother's lot,-
His image was almost forgot;
And every deeper shade of pain
Had vanished from my soul again.
The well-known morn, I used to greet
With boyhood's joy, at length was beaming,
And thoughts of home and rapture sweet
In every eye but mine were gleaming:
But I, amidst that youthful band
Of bounding hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted ecstacies!
I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's altered brow;
I feared to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony;
I feared to view my native spot,
Where he who loved it now was not,
The pleasures of my home were fled;
My brother slumbered with the dead.
I drew near to my father's gate;
No smiling faces met me now,
I entered,-all was desolate,
Grief sat upon my mother's brow;
I heard her, as she kissed me, sigh:
A tear stood in
my father's eye;
My little brothers round me pressed,
In gay, unthinking childhood blessed,
Long, long, that hour has passed; but when
Shall I forget its gloomy scene!
The Sabbath came. With mournful face
I sought my brother's burial-place;
That shrine, which when I last had viewed,
In vigour by my side he stood.
I gazed around with fearful eye;
All things reposed in sanctity.
I reached the chancel,-nought was changed: The altar decently arranged,
The pure white cloth above the shrine,
The consecrated bread and wine,
All was the same. I found no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place.
One hurried glance I downward gave,-
My foot was on my brother's grave!
And years have passed-and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;
And cheerful is my mother's brow;
My father's eye has lost its gloom;
And years have passed-and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;
With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thee he died.
Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel-spirits wander o'er!
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