Is there; and yet how dark a death was thine!
Could it—oh! could it be—meek child of song?
The might of gentleness on that fair brow—
Was the celestial gift no shield from wrong?
Bore it no talisman to ward the blow?
Ask if a flower, upon the billows cast,
Might brave their strife—a flute-note hush the blast!
Are there not deep, sad oracles to read
In the clear stillness of that radiant face?
Yes! even like thee must gifted spirits bleed,