Grief sat upon my mother's brow: The sabbath came-with mournful pace I gazed around with fearful eye- I reach'd the chancel-nought was changed- 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— And years have pass'd, and thou art now And cheerful is my mother's brow, My father's eye has lost its gloom, Another victim by thy side; With thee he roams, an infant shade, But not more pure than thou he died. And that dear home, which saw your birth, My boyish days are nearly gone, From ills my brother never knew. And I have made me bosom friends, And loved and link'd my heart with others; But who with mine his spirit blends, As mine was blended with my brother's? When years of rapture glided by, The spring of life's unclouded weather, Our souls were knit, and thou and I, My brother, grew in love together. The chain is broke which bound us then- November, 1818. ΤΟ In many a strain of grief and joy, And there's a gulf 'twixt thee and me. To thoughts that held my heart in thrall, Are faded from my path-and gone. I launch into life's stormy main, And 'tis with tears-but not of sorrow, That, pouring thus my parting strain, I bid thee, as a Bride, good-morrow. Full well thou know'st I envy not The heart it is thy choice to share : My soul dwells on thee, as a thought With which no earthly wishes are. I love thee as I love the star, The gentle star that smiles at Even, That melts into my heart from far, And leads my wandering thoughts to Heaven. 'Twould break my soul's divinest dream With meaner love to mingle thee; "Twould dim the most unearthly beam Thy form sheds o'er my memory. It is my joy, it is my pride To picture thee in bliss divine; A bliss by day-a dream by night,- Still think of me as of a brother, I'd not be loved, nor love thee, more. Not oft shall break my solitude. The goblet to my lips I'll rear, I'll blend thy welfare with my own. I shall not blush to think of thine. Then sometimes-sometimes think of me. In pain or health-in grief or mirth, Oh, may it to my prayer be given That we may sometimes meet on earth, And meet, to part no more, in Heaven. Sept. 18, 1820. |