But, to commit him to the watery grave,
O'er which the winds, unwearied mourners, rave,
One, who strove darkly sorrow's sob to stay,
Upraised the body: thrice I bade him stay;
Bor still my wordless woe had much to say,
And still I bent and gazed, and gazing wept.
At last my sisters, with humane constraint,
Held me, and I was calm as dying saint;
While that stern weeper- lowered into the sea
My ill-starred boy! Deep—buried deep, he slept.
And then I looked to heaven in agony,
And prayed to end my pilgrimage of pain,
That I might meet my beauteous boy again!
Oh, had he lived to reach this wretched land,
And then expired, I would have blessed the strand!
But where my poor boy lies I may not lie;
I cannot come, with broken heart, to sigh
O'er his loved dust, and strew with flowers his turf—
His pillow hath no cover but the surf;
I may not pour the soul-drop from mine eye
Near his cold bed: he slumbers in the wave!
Oh! I will love the sea, because it is his grave!
The Dying Soldier.
The tumult of battle had ceased—high in air
The standard of Britain triumphantly waved;
And the remnant of foes had all fled in despair,
Whom night, intervening, from slaughter had saved:
When a veteran was seen, by the light of his lamp,
Slow pacing the bounds of the carcass-strewn plain;
Not base his intent,—for he quitted his camp
To comfort the dying,—not plunder the slain.
Though dauntless in war, at a story of woe
Down his age-furrowed cheeks the tears often ran;
Alike proud to conquer or spare a brave foe,
He fought like a hero!—"but felt like a man!"
As he counted the slain,—"Ah, conquest!" he cried,
"Thou art glorious indeed, but how dearly thou'rt won!
"Too dearly, alas!" a voice faintly replied—
It thrilled through his heart, 'twas the voice of his son!
