ON THE DEATH OF CAMILLA.

BY L. A. WILMER.

'Tis past; the dear delusive dream hath fled,
And with it all that made existence dear;
Not she alone, but all my joys are dead,
For all my joys could live alone with her.
O, if the grave e'er claim'd affection's tear,
Then, loved Camilla, on thy clay-cold bed
Clothed with the verdure of the new-born year,
Where each wild flower its fragrance loves to shed—
There will I kneel and weep, and wish myself were dead.
'Tis not for her I weep—no, she is bless'd;
A favor'd soul enfranchis'd from this sphere:
A selfish sorrow riots in my breast;
I mourn for woes that she can never share.
She sighs no more—no more lets fall the tear,
She who once sympathiz'd with every grief
That tore this bosom, solac'd every care;
She whose sweet presence made all sorrows brief,
Ah, now no more to me can she afford relief.
Around this world—(a wilderness to me,
Not Petrea's deserts more forlorn or dread)
I cast my eyes, and wish in vain to see
Those rays of hope the skies in mercy shed—
Each dear memorial of Camilla dead—
Her image, by the pencil's aid retain'd,
The sainted lock that once adorn'd her head,
These sad mementos of my grief, remain'd
To tell me I have lost what ne'er can be regain'd.
On these I gaze, on these my soul I bend,
Breathe all my prayers, and offer every sigh;
With these my joys, my hopes, my wishes blend,—
For these I live—for these I fain would die;
These subject for my every thought supply—
Her picture smiles, unconscious of my woe,
Benevolence beams from that azure eye,
From mine the tears of bitter anguish flow,
And yet she smiles serene, nor seems my grief to know!
* * * * *
Still let imagination view the saint,
The seraph now—Camilla I behold!—
Such as the pen or pencil may not paint,
In hues which shall not seem austerely cold.
To fancy's eye her beauties still unfold.
What fancy pictures in her wildest mood,
What thought alone, and earth no more can mould
She was; with all to charm mankind endued,
Eve in her perfect state, in her once more renew'd!
Chang'd is the scene! The coffin and the tomb
Enfold that form where every grace combin'd!
Death draws his veil—envelopes in his gloom
The boast of earth—the wonder of mankind!
She died—without reluctance, and resigned;
Without reluctance, but one tear let fall
In pity for the wretch she left behind,
To curse existence on this earthly ball—
One thought she gave to him, and then the heavens had all.
Who that hath seen her but hath felt her worth?
Who praise withholds, and hopes to be forgiven?
Her presence banish'd every thought of earth,
Subdued each wish unfit to dwell in heaven.
From all of earth her hopes and thoughts were riven,
She lived regardful of the skies alone;
A saint, but not by superstition driven,
Not by the vow monastic, to atone
For sins that ne'er were hers,—for sins to her unknown!
Hers was religion from all dross refin'd,
A soul communing with its parent—God;
Grateful for benefits and aye resigned
To every dispensation of His rod.
Pure and immaculate, life's path she trod—
Envy grew pale and calumny was dumb!
Till drooping, dying—this floriferous sod,
And this plain marble, point her lowly tomb;
Even here she still inspires a reverential gloom!
O lost to earth, yet ever bless'd,—farewell!
This poor oblation to thy grave I bring;
O spotless maid, that now in heav'n dost dwell
Where choral saints and radiant angels sing
The eternal praises of the Almighty king;
While this sad cypress and funereal yew
Unite their boughs, their gloom around me fling,
Congenial glooms, that all my own renew;
I still invoke thy shade, still pause to bid adieu!

SONNET.

Science! meet daughter of old Time thou art,
Who alterest all things with thy peering eyes!
Why prey'st thou thus upon the poet's heart,
Vulture! whose wings are dull realities!
How should he love thee, or how deem thee wise,
Who would'st not leave him in his wandering,
To seek for treasure in the jewell'd skies,
Albeit he soar with an undaunted wing?
Hast thou not dragg'd Diana from her car,
And driv'n the Hamadryad from the wood
To seek a shelter in some happier star?
The gentle Naiad from her fountain flood?
The elfin from the green grass? and from me
The summer dream beneath the shrubbery?