THE MOURNER'S LAMENT.
BY PARK BENJAMIN.
The night-breeze fans my faded cheek,
And lifts my damp and flowing hair—
And lo! methinks sweet voices speak,
Like harp-strings to the viewless air;
While in the sky's unmeasured scroll,
The burning stars forever roll,
Changeless as heaven, and deeply bright—
Fair emblems of a world of light!
Oh, bathe my temples with thy dew,
Sweet Evening, dearest parent mild,
And from thy curtained home of blue,
Bend calmly o'er thy tearful child:
For, when I feel, so soft and bland,
The pressure of thy tender hand,
I dream I rest in peace the while,
Cradled beneath my mother's smile.
That mother sleeps! the snow-white shroud
Enfolds her stainless bosom now,
And, like bright hues on some pale cloud,
Rose-leaves were woven round her brow.
I wreathed them that to heaven's pure bowers,
Surrounded with the breath of flowers,
Her soul might soar through mists divine,
Like incense from a holy shrine.
How changed my being! moments sweep
Down, down the eternal gulf of Time;
And we, like gilded bubbles, keep
Our course amid their waves sublime,
Till, mingled with the foam and spray,
We flash our lives of joy away;
Or, drifting on through Sorrow's shades,
Sink as a gleam of starlight fades.
Alone! alone! I'm left alone—
A creature born to grieve and die;
But, while upon Night's sapphire throne,
In yonder broad and glorious sky,
I gaze in sadness—lo! I feel
A vision of the future steal
Across my sight, like some faint ray
That glimmers from the fount of day.