And travellers now within that valley While, like a ghastly rapid river, A hideous throng rush out forever, - Edgar Allan Poe TO MY MOTHER Because I feel that, in the Heavens above, And fill my heart of hearts, where Death installed you, My mother my own mother, who died early, Are mother to the one I loved so dearly, And thus are dearer than the mother I knew By that infinity with which my wife Was dearer to my soul than its soul-life. BEDOUIN SONG - Edgar Allan Poe From the Desert I come to thee And the winds are left behind In the speed of my desire. And the midnight hears my cry: And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Look from thy window and see My passion and my pain; I lie on the sands below, And I faint in thy disdain. And melt thee to hear the vow Of a love that shall not die Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment My steps are nightly driven, By the fever in my breast, To hear from thy lattice breathed Open the door of thy heart, The love that shall fade no more Till the sun grows cold, And the stars are old, And the leaves of the Judgment Book unfold! Bayard Taylor THE SOLDIER'S DREAM Our bugles sang truce, for the night-cloud had lower'd, When reposing that night on my pallet of straw 'T was Autumn, and sunshine arose on the way I flew to the pleasant fields traversed so oft In life's morning march, when my bosom was young; I heard my own mountain-goats bleating aloft, And knew the sweet strain that the corn-reapers sung. Then pledged we the wine-cup, and fondly I swore And my wife sobb'd aloud in her fulness of heart. art weary and And fain was their war-broken soldier to stay; But sorrow return'd with the dawning of morn, And the voice in my dreaming ear melted away. Thomas Campbell THE BURIAL OF SIR JOHN MOORE AFTER CORUNNA Not a drum was heard, not a funeral note, We buried him darkly at dead of night, No useless coffin enclosed his breast, Not in sheet nor in shroud we wound him; But he lay like a warrior taking his rest, With his martial cloak around him. Few and short were the prayers we said, And we spoke not a word of sorrow; But we steadfastly gazed on the face that was dead, We thought, as we hollow'd his narrow bed And smoothed down his lonely pillow, That the foe and the stranger would tread o'er his head, And we far away on the billow! Lightly they'll talk of the spirit that's gone And o'er his cold ashes upbraid him, — But little he'll reck, if they let him sleep on In the grave where a Briton has laid him. But half of our heavy task was done When the clock struck the hour for retiring; And we heard the distant and random gun That the foe was sullenly firing. Slowly and sadly we laid him down, From the field of his fame fresh and gory; Charles Wolfe THE DEATH BED We watch'd her breathing thro' the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life So silently we seem'd to speak, So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers Our very hopes belied our fears, We thought her dying when she slept, |