Blackwood's Edinburgh Magazine, Volume 34, Page 858
I.
THE BROTHER'S DIRGE.
In the proud old fanes of England
My warrior fathers lie,
Banners hang drooping o'er their dust
With gorgeous blazonry.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
O'er thee dark billows sweep,
The best and bravest heart of all
Is shrouded by the deep.
In the old high wars of England
Their noble fathers bled;
For her lion Kings of lance and spear,
They went down to the dead.
But thou, but thou, my brother!
Thy life-days flow'd for me—
Would I were with thee in thy rest,
Young sleeper of the sea.
In a shelter'd home of England
Our sister dwells alone,
With quick heart listening for the sound
Of footsteps that are gone.
She little dreams, my brother!
Of the wild fate we have found;
I, midst the Afric sands a slave,
Thou, by the dark seas bound.
