XLVIII.

CORCYRA.

I SAT beneath an olive's branches grey
And gazed upon the site of a lost town,
By sage and poet chosen for renown;
Where dwelt a Race that on the sea held sway,
And, restless as its waters, forced a way

For civil strife a thousand states to drown.
That multitudinous stream we now note down,
As though one life, in birth and in decay.
Yet, is their being's history spent and run,
Whose spirits live in awful singleness

Each in his self-formed sphere of light or gloom?
Henceforth, while pondering the fierce deeds then done,
Such reverence on me shall its seal impress

As though I corpses saw, and walked the tomb.

G

BEREAVEMENT.

XLIX.

"Wherefore I abhor myself and repent in dust and ashes."

AND dare I say,

Job xlii. 6.

"Welcome to me

The pang that proves thee near? O words, too oft on bended knee

Breath'd to th' Unerring Ear.

While the cold spirit silently

Pines at the scourge severe.

Nay, try once more-thine eyelids close
For prayer intense and meek:

When the warm light gleams thro' and shows
Him near who helps the weak.

Unmurmuring then thy heart's repose
In dust and ashes seek.

I THOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem'd
Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure,

Thy place in Paradise

Beyond where I could soar;

Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,

Where patiently thou tak'st

Thy sweet and sure repose.

The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air
Is full of cheering whispers like thine own;
While Memory, by thy grave,

Lives o'er thy funeral day;

The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate.Sure with the words of Heaven

Thy spirit met us there,

And sought with us along th' accustom'd way
The hallowed porch, and entering in, beheld
The pageant of sad joy,

So dear to Faith and Hope.

O! hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touched The sacred springs of grief

More tenderly and true,

Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne, Guiding through light and gloom

Our mourning fancies wild,

Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve,
Around the western twilight, all subside

Into a placid Faith,

That even with beaming eye

Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier and pall;
So many relics of a frail love lost,

So many tokens dear

Of endless love begun.

Listen! it is no dream: th' Apostles' trump

Gives earnest of th' Archangel's ;-calmly now Our hearts yet beating high

To that victorious lay,

Most like a warrior's to the martial dirge

Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust
Our treasure for a while:

And if a tear steal down,

If human anguish o'er the shaded brow

Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth Touches the coffin lid;

If at our brother's name,