Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/113

1830-40.] OTWAY CURRY. 97 THE MINSTREL'S HOME. The image of a happier home, Whence far my feet have strayed, Still flits around me, as I roam, Like joy's departed shade ; Though childhood's light of joy has set. Its home is dear to memory yet ! Here — where the lapse of time has swept The forest's waving pride. And many a summer light hath slept Upon the green hill's side, I'll rest, while twilight's pinions spread Their shadows o'er my grassy bed. Yon stars — enthroned so high — so bright. Like gems on heaven's fair brow. Through all the majesty of night Are smiling on me now : The promptings of poetic dreams Are floating on their pale, pure beams. The muses of the starry spheres High o'er me wend along. With visions of my infant years Blending their choral song — Strewing with fancy's choicest flowers, The pathway of the tranced hours. They sing of constellations high. The weary minstrel's home ; Of days of sorrow hastening by. And bright ones yet to come — Far in the sky, like ocean isles. Where sunny light forever smiles. They sing of happy circles, bright, Where bards of old have gone ; Where rounding ages of delight, Undimmed, are shining on, — And now, in silence, sleeps again The breathing of their mystic strain. Leave me — ! leave me not alone. While I am sleeping here ; Still let that soft and silvery tone Sound in my dreaming ear ; I would not lose that strain divine. To call earth's thousand kingdoms mine ! It is the sunbeam of the mind. Whose bliss can ne'er be won, Till the reviving soul shall find Life's long, dark journey done, — Then peerless splendor shall array The morning of that sinless day. TO MY MOTHER. My mother ! though in darkness now The slumber of the grave is pass'd, Its gloom will soon be o'er, and thou Wilt break away at last. And dwell where neither grief nor pain Can ever reach thy heart again. Sleep on — the cold and heavy hand Of death has stilled thy gentle breast, No rude sound of this stormy land Shall mar thy peaceful rest : Undying guardians round thee close. To count the years of thy repose. A day of the far years will break On every sea and every shore. In whose bright morning thou shalt wake And rise, to sleep no more — No more to moulder in the gloom And coldness of the dreary tomb. I saw thy fleeting life decay. Even as a frail and withering flower. And vainly strove to while away Its swiftly closing hour : It came, with many a thronging thought Of anguish ne'er again forgot.