And when the mist at morn arose
From Katrine's silvery wave,
A form of aspect ominous,
With pensive look and grave,
Moved from the waters towards the glen
Where stands the holly-tree;
'T was the brother who is sleeping low
Beneath the stormy sea.
And while to-night the curfew bell
Rang out with solemn chime,
As soundeth o'er the buried year,
The organ peal of time,
And, near the fragrant jessamine,
I mused in garden glade,
A phantom form appeared to me
Beneath the hawthorn shade.
The dews had wept their silent tears,
The moon was up on high,
And every star was sphered with calm,
Like an archangel's eye;
And melancholy music swept
With cadence low and sweet,
Such as ascends when spirit-wings
Around a death-bed meet.
O was it not a mother's heart
That gave that warning sign;
The loving heart that used to thrill
To every grief of mine?
I oft have deemed, in sunny hours,
When life with love was fraught,
The nearness of the dead to us
A fantasy of thought.
But, standing on the barrier
I used to view with pain,
I feel the chains of severed love
Are linking close again.
Another hand must smooth and bless
My father's silver hair;
Another voice must read to him
At morn and evening prayer.