He looks,—the shepherd of Chaldea's hills
Tending his flocks,—
And wonders the rich beacon does not blaze,
Gladdening his gaze;—
And from his dreary watch along the rocks,
Guiding him safely home through perilous ways!
Still wondering as the drowsy silence fills
The sorrowful scene, and every hour distils
Its leaden dews.—How chafes he at the night,
Still slow to bring the expected and sweet light,
So natural to his sight!
And lone,
Where its first splendors shone,
Shall be that pleasant company of stars:
How should they know that death
Such perfect beauty mars?
And like the earth, its crimson bloom and breath;
Fallen from on high,
Their lights grow blasted by its touch, and die!—
All their concerted springs of harmony
Snapped rudely, and the generous music gone.
A strain—a mellow strain—
A wailing sweetness filled the sky;
The stars, lamenting in unborrowed pain,
That one of their selectest ones must die!
Must vanish, when most lovely, from the rest!
Alas! 'tis evermore our destiny,
The hope, heart-cherished, is the soonest lost;
The flower first budden, soonest feels the frost:
Are not the shortest-lived still loveliest?
And, like the pale star shooting down the sky,
Look they not ever brightest when they fly
The desolate home they blessed?
WILLIAM GILMORE SIMMS.
*
PASSING AWAY.
Was it the chime of a tiny bell
That came so sweet to my dreaming ear,
Like the silvery tones of a fairy's shell