THE KNELL.
A silver sound was on the summer-air,
And yet it was not music. The sweet birds
Went warbling wildly forth from grove and dell
Their thrilling harmonies, yet this low tone
Chimed not with them. But in the secret soul
There was a deep response, troubling the fount
Where bitter tears are born. Too well I knew
The tomb's prelusive melody. I turned,
And sought the house of mourning.
Ah, pale friend !
Who speak'st not—look'st not—dost not give the hand,
Hath love so perished in that pulseless breast,
Once its own throne?
Thou silent, changeless one,
The seal is on thy virtues now no more,
Like ours to tremble in temptation's hour,
Perchance, to fall. Fear hath no longer power
To chill thy life-stream, and frail hope doth fold
Her rainbow wing, and sink to rest with thee.
How good to be unclothed, and sleep in peace!
Friend!—Friend!—I grieve to lose thee. Thou hast been
The sharer of my sympathies, the soul
That prompted me to good, the hand that shed
Dew on my drooping virtues. In all scenes
Where we have dwelt together—walking on
In friendship's holy concord, I am now
But a divided being. Who is left
To love, as thou hast loved?
