Such, my dear cousin, was the old man's history; and as he ceased, his head leaned droopingly upon his hand, while his whole attitude betokened the most intense mental suffering. For some moments there was silence between us, for I felt that words were insufficient to console him. But suddenly the stillness was broken by the sound of lively voices approaching, and I recognized the tones of my long-absent companions, and knew that they were close at hand. In a few seconds more, they appeared near the stone-fence, which I have once before alluded to. The old sailor evidently wished to avoid them, for their gayety was discordant to his feelings. Rising from his seat, he now drew closer to the spot where I was stationed.
"Farewell, young lady," were his parting words, as he clasped my extended hand, and for a moment that pale, sad face, looked so mournfully into mine, that tears of the deepest commiseration sprung involuntarily to my eyes, "we may never meet again, and I trust you will forgive me, if the repetition of my sorrows has cast a shadow upon your heart. Remember me in your prayers, if you will, and ask that I may soon be borne to my last repose in the little grave-yard yonder, where my son lies sleeping. Farewell."
An instant more and he was gone—and for some moments I remained seated where he had left me, patiently awaiting the approach of my friends, and meanwhile musing earnestly and sadly upon the Sailor's Life-Tale.
THE MOURNERS.
Where'er I wander forth I view the mournful ones of earth:
They tread no more, with buoyant feet, the radiant halls of mirth;
Around their trembling frames are drawn the weary weeds of wo;
Their sighs, like cold November rains, with saddened cadence flow;
From the dead hopes and faded joys of bright departed years,
They twine a garland for the brow, impearled with many tears;
Upon the graves of buried loves they sit awhile and sigh,
Then, mid the ruin-mantled waste of time, lie down to die.
They close their weary eyes upon God's calm and holy light;
They dwell girt round with misery as with a starless night;
They fold a thick and icy shroud their care-worn bosoms round,
And rest beneath the baleful charm like streams by winter bound;
They nurse their sorrow till of all their thoughts it grows a part,
And, like a cold and mighty snake, twines round the bleeding heart;
And then its hissing tones descend in drops of fiery rain,
And scathe, as lightning flashes blast, the weak and wandering brain.
The mourners chant, with voices low, a sweet and sighing strain,
That moans, as on a rocky shore, the solemn sounding main:
It breathes alike when summer fades and when the violets spring;
It mingles with the morning light and evening twilight dim.
This is the burden of that faint and melancholy lay:
"The cloud of wo hath hid the smiles and beauty of the day;
The glow of earth, the radiant gleam, the bliss of life is o'er;
The rose of human love may bloom for us no more—no more."
Arise, be strong, O, mournful ones! The Future is your own;
There Love may weave her rosy nest, there Joy erect a throne.
Though youth's pale buds in early Spring were blighted and laid low,
Thine yet may be the peerless bloom of life's rich summer glow.
The blissful ones, the glorified, build up their own bright state.
Let but the slumbering spirit learn "to labor and to wait,"
Then, like a bird of tireless wing, 'twill rise above the storm,
And bathe its flashing pinions in the glory of the morn!