86
WHISPERINGS IN WATTLE-BOUGHS.
Oh, tell me, ancient friend, ever ready to defend
In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill,
Are you waking yet, or sleeping? have you left this vale of weeping?
Or do you, like your comrade, linger still?
In our boyhood, at the base of life's long hill,
Are you waking yet, or sleeping? have you left this vale of weeping?
Or do you, like your comrade, linger still?
Oh, whisper, buried love, is there rest and peace above?—
There is little hope or comfort here below;—
On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is strait and cold—
Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow.
There is little hope or comfort here below;—
On your sweet face lies the mould, and your bed is strait and cold—
Near the harbour where the sea-tides ebb and flow.
•••••••
All silent—they are dumb—and the breezes go and come
With an apathy that mocks at man's distress;
Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray
For an answer that might stay my bitterness.
With an apathy that mocks at man's distress;
Laugh, scoffer, while you may! I could bow me down and pray
For an answer that might stay my bitterness.
Oh, harshly screams the bird! and the wattle-bloom is stirr'd!
There's a sullen weird-like whisper in the bough:
“Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but his beloved sleep
Can never be disture'd by such as thou!!”
There's a sullen weird-like whisper in the bough:
“Aye, kneel, and pray, and weep, but his beloved sleep
Can never be disture'd by such as thou!!”
