A FUNERAL FANTASIE.

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 in rain;

Mourning, the wan stars wane,

Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres!

Haggard as spectres—vision-like and dumb,

Dark with the pomp of Death, and moving slow,

Towards that sad lair the pale Procession come

Where the Grave closes on the Night below.

With dim, deep sunken eye,

Crutch'd on his staff, who trembles tottering by?

As wrung from out the shatter'd heart, one groan

Breaks the deep hush alone!

Crush'd by the iron Fate, he seems to gather

All life's last strength to stagger to the bier,

And hearken——Do those cold lips murmur "Father?"

The sharp rain, drizzling through that place of fear,

Pierces the bones gnaw'd fleshless by despair,

And the heart's horror stirs the silver hair.

Fresh bleed the fiery wounds

Through all that agonizing heart undone—

Still on the voiceless lips "my Father" sounds,

And still the childless Father murmurs "Son!"

Ice-cold—ice-cold, in that white shroud he lies—

Thy sweet and golden dreams all vanish'd there—

The sweet and golden name of "Father" dies

Into thy curse,—ice-cold—ice-cold—he lies

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

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.

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!

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!

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.

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 in rain;

Mourning, the wan stars wane,

Flickering like dying lamps in sepulchres.

The dull clods swell into the sullen mound;

Earth, one look yet upon the prey we gave!

The Grave locks up the treasure it has found;

Higher and higher swells the sullen mound—

Never gives back the Grave!