by Camilla Toulmin.
Originally published in Bentley's Miscellany (Richard Bentley).
And thou art dead! It falls upon the ear,
And heart, with a most strange, and startling sound;
For there doth seem a halo bright and clear,
The young, and lov'd, and gifted to surround,
As if to shield them from the tyrant's power;
And while we build for them high hopes on earth,
We in their future picture not that hour,
Which quells all hope that has so low a birth.
Thy genius was a mine of Poesy!
Yet some there were, who, though it gave rich ore,
Still deem'd most precious veins untouch'd did lie,
(Thyself, perchance, unconscious of such store,)
And fondly thought that in that far-off clime,
Choosing some lofty and unhackney'd strain,
With mind matured by travel, change, and time,
Thy lyre's rich music oft would wake again!
Life's chequer'd book had but just turn'd for thee
A new and glowing page of hope and love,—
Alas! the records brief were doom'd to be,—
Death severs ties nought else could ever move.
And cold the brow where hangs thy wreath of fame,
Yet not a leaf of it is lost or faded;
And faithfully enshrin'd shall be thy name,
In hearts that sorrow for thy loss has shaded.
And thou hast only now a foreign grave,—
Far from all memories of olden time;
Where skies are bright, and palm-trees gently wave
In the hot air of Afric's sultry clime;
And stars which there keep nightly watch above
Are strange, and shed no rays on this dear land,
Which yet, methinks, that thou full well didst love,
And yearn to, even from that distant strand!