ies
Dead, what thy life's delight and Eden were!

4.

Mild, as when, fresh from the arms of Aurora,
When the air like Elysium is smiling above,
Steep'd in rose-breathing odours, the darling of Flora
Wantons over the blooms on his winglets of love.--
So gay, o'er the meads, went his footsteps in bliss,
The silver wave mirror'd the smile of his face;
Delight, like a flame, kindled up at his kiss,
And the heart of the maid was the prey of his chase.

5.

Boldly he sprang to the strife of the world,
As a deer to the mountain-top carelessly springs;
As an eagle whose plumes to the sun are unfurl'd,
Swept his Hope round the Heaven on its limitless wings.
Proud as a war-horse that chafes at the rein,
That kingly exults in the storm of the brave;
That throws to the wind the wild stream of its mane,
Strode he forth by the prince and the slave!

6.

Life, like a spring-day, serene and divine,
In the star of the morning went by as a trance;
His murmurs he drown'd in the gold of the wine,
And his sorrows were borne on the wave of the dance.
Worlds lay conceal'd in the hopes of his youth,
When once he shall ripen to manhood and fame!
Fond Father exult!--In the germs of his youth
What harvests are destined for Manhood and Fame!

7.

Not to be was that Manhood!--The death-bell is knelling
The hinge of the death-vault creaks harsh on the ears--
How dismal, O Death, is the place of thy dwelling!
Not to be was that Manhood!--Flow on bitter tears!
Go, beloved, thy path to the sun,
Rise, world upon world, with the perfect to rest;
Go--quaff the delight which thy spirit has won,
And escape from our grief in the halls of the blest.

8.

Again (in that thought what a healing is found!)
To meet in the Eden to which thou art fled!--
Hark, the coffin sinks down with a dull, sullen sound,
And the ropes rattle over the sleep of the dead.
And we cling to each other!--O Grave, he is thine!
The eye tells the woe that is mute to the ears--
And we dare to resent what we grudge to resign,
Till the heart's sinful murmur is choked in its tears.

Pale at its ghastly noon,
Pauses above the death-still wood--the moon!
The night-sprite, sighing, through the dim air stirs;
The clouds descend i