writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’
That ‘Loss is common to the race’–
And common is the commonplace,
vacant chaff well meant for grain.
loss is common would not make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
evening, but some heart did break.
father, wheresoe’er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son;
A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
still’d the life that beat from thee.
mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor,–while thy head is bow’d,
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
in his vast and wandering grave.
know no more than I who wrought
At that last hour to please him well;
Who mused on all I had to tell,
something written, something thought;
still his advent home;
And ever met him on his way
With wishes, thinking, ‘here to-day,’
‘here to-morrow will he come.’
somewhere, meek, unconscious dove,
That sittest ranging golden hair;
And glad to find thyself so fair,
child, that waitest for thy love!
now her father’s chimney glows
In expectation of a guest;
And thinking ‘this will please him best,’
takes a riband or a rose;
he will see them on to-night;
And with the thought her colour burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
more to set a ringlet right;
even when she turn’d, the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was drown’d in passing thro’ the ford,
kill’d in falling from his horse.
what to her shall be the end?
And what to me remains of good?
To her, perpetual maidenhood,
unto me no second friend.