One midst the forests of the West,
By a dark stream, is laid;
The Indian knows his place of rest
Far in the cedar's shade.
The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one,
He lies where pearls lie deep,
He was the loved of all, yet none
O'er his low bed may weep.
One sleeps where southern vines are drest
Above the noble slain;
He wrapt his colours round his breast
On a blood-red field of Spain.
And one, o'er her the myrtle showers
Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd;
She faded midst Italian flowers,
The last of that bright band.
And, parted thus, they rest—who played
Beneath the same green tree,
Whose voices mingled as they prayed
Around one parent knee!
They that with smiles lit up the hall,
And cheered with song the hearth,
Alas for love, if thou wert all,
And nought beyond, oh earth!
CASABIANCA
The boy stood on the burning deck,
Whence all but him had fled;
The flame that lit the battle's wreck,
Shone round him o'er the dead.
Yet beautiful and bright he stood,
As born to rule the storm;
A creature of heroic blood,
A proud, though child-like form.
The flames roll'd on—he would not go,
Without his father's word;
That father, faint in death below,
His voice no longer heard.
He call'd aloud—'Say, father, say
If yet my task is done?'
He knew not that the chieftain lay
Unconscious of his son.
'Speak, father!' once again he cried,
'If I may yet be gone!'
—And but the booming shots replied,
And fast the flames roll'd on.