But these, our writers—when one dies, the hours
Are hush'd awhile, because they could not save;
And smiles and tears, like sunshine cross'd by flowers,
Arch an eternal rainbow o'er his grave.
Never forgotten—yet we mourn his loss,
As of some friend long loved and deeply tried;
Or as of sunshine that has lain across
So long, we it ne'er would leave our side.
Therefore, when tidings came, how in fair spring
Death had seized one whose heart no winter knew,
Great sadness fell on us, remembering
Days of our youth, when things seem'd fair and true;
When we lay, deep beneath the apple shade,
In an old orchard all the afternoon;
Above us, pink and white, the blossoms spread;
Flowers at our feet, and all around us June.
And then we read the tales of war and Spain;
Of revelry and Ireland, sword and gown;
Of love that mock'd at bars put up in vain;
Of hardihood that trampled danger down;
Proctors and doctors, undergrads, dragoons,
Vivandières, and priests, and muleteers gay;
Groves dear to maidens, soldiers, stars, and moons,
Swept past our fancy in their wild array.
And is he dead, who told so well—whose pen
Grew wise, but never dull whose—laughter rang,
If not so loud, as genial still as when
Among his Dublin monks he drank and sang?
Farewell, Charles Lever! Could fate overlook,
But for one other work, thy fruitful days.
Farewell ! the world is gloomier. Ill we brook
To lose thy voice in Joy's small choir of Praise.
Charles James Lever, the writer of so many brilliant works of fiction, was born in Dublin, in the year 1809. He was educated there at Trinity College, and was originally intended to follow the medical profession; but