AT WAKING.

I bore dead Love unto his grave,

Beneath a willow, in winter’s rain,

Where he might feel the branches wave,

And hear me, if he woke again.

One withered rose-tree on his tomb

I planted, so that, by-and-by,

If he should wake, the rose might bloom,

And I should know, and hear him cry.

I decked his breast with rosemary,

Laid on his lips one violet,

That once he kissed; I think if he

Should wake, he will not quite forget.

I set a crown about his brow,

The crown affection weaves and wears;

At waking, he will hardly know,

I fear, whose diadem he shares.

I placed a lily in his hand—

Sceptre of his dead sovereignty;

At waking, will he understand

Who placed it there, to bloom or die?

I laid my heart, that for his sake

Remembers now no old sweet strain,

Close to his ear; he, if he wake,

Perchance may tune its strings again.

If he should wake! Till death be dead,

Till life begin, and sleep be past,

Till on his breast he lay thy head,

And flowers begin to bloom at last—

O soul, remember! lest by thee

That unknown sweetness be forgot

Which now thou lookest for, and he

Bid thee ‘Depart! I know thee not.’

Sidney R. Thompson.

Printed and Published by W. & R. Chambers, 47 Paternoster Row, London, and 339 High Street, Edinburgh.