SECOND-SIGHT.
“Ne’er err’d the prophet-heart that grief inspired,
Though joy’s illusions mock their votarist.”—Maturin.
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!
A murmur of the soul which blends
With the flow of song and wine.
An eye that through the triumph’s hour
Beholds the coming woe,
And dwells upon the faded flower
Midst the rich summer’s glow.
Ye smile to view fair faces bloom
Where the father’s board is spread;
I see the stillness and the gloom
Of a home whence all are fled.
I see the wither’d garlands lie
Forsaken on the earth,
While the lamps yet burn, and the dancers fly
Through the ringing hall of mirth.
I see the blood-red future stain
On the warrior’s gorgeous crest;
And the bier amidst the bridal train
When they come with roses drest.
I hear the still small moan of time
Through the ivy branches made,
Where the palace, in its glory’s prime,
With the sunshine stands array’d.
The thunder of the seas I hear,
The shriek along the wave,
When the bark sweeps forth, and song and cheer
Salute the parting brave.
With every breeze a spirit sends
To me some warning sign,—
A mournful gift is mine, O friends!
A mournful gift is mine!
O prophet-heart! thy grief, thy power,
To all deep souls belong—
The shadow in the sunny hour,
The wail in the mirthful song.
Their sight is all too sadly clear—
For them a veil is riven;
Their piercing thoughts repose not here,
Their home is but in heaven.