Fatigues the eye: in solitudes like these By CAMERON (10) thunder'd, or by RENWICK (11) pour'd In gentle stream: then rose the song, the loud And on the distant cairns, the watcher's ear* * Sentinels were placed on the surrounding hills, to give warn ing of the approach of the military. Caught doubtfully at times the breeze-borne note. Of night, save when the wint'ry storm rav'd fierce, BUT wood and wild, the mountain and the dale, The house of pray'r itself,—no place inspires Emotions more accordant with the day, Than does the field of graves, the land of rest :Oft at the close of ev'ning-pray'r, the toll, The fun'ral-toll, announces solemnly The service of the tomb; the homeward crouds Divide on either hand: the pomp draws near; The choir to meet the dead go forth, and sing, "I am the resurrection and the life." Ah me! these youthful bearers rob'd in white, They tell a mournful tale; some blooming friend Is gone, dead in her prime of years :-'twas she, The poor man's friend, who, when she could not give, With angel-tongue pleaded to those who could, With angel-tongue and mild beseeching eye, That ne'er besought in vain, save when she pray'd For longer life, with heart resign'd to die,— Her voyage's last days,* and, hovʼring round, Alighted on her soul, giving presage That heav'n was nigh: O what a burst Of rapture from her lips! what tears of joy Her heav'nward eyes suffus'd! Those eyes are clos'd: Yet all her loveliness is not yet flown: She smil❜d in death, and still her cold pale face Retains that smile; as when a waveless lake, * Towards the end of Columbus's voyage to the new world, when he was already near, but not in sight of land, the drooping hopes of his mariners (for his own confidence feems to have remained unmoved) were revived by the appearance of birds at first hovering round the ship, and then lighting on the rigging. In which the wint'ry stars all bright appear, Still it reflects the face of heav'n unchang'd, The record of her blossoming age,)—appears The final rite. Oh! hark that sullen sound! Falls fast, and fills the void. But who is he That stands aloof, with haggard wistful eye, As if he coveted the closing grave ? And he does covet it; his wish is death : The dread resolve is fix'd; his own right-hand |