It was thy spirit, brother! which had made
The bright earth glorious to her thoughtful eye,
Since first in childhood midst the vines ye play'd.
And sent glad singing thro' the free blue sky.
Ye were but two—and when that spirit pass’d,
Wo to the one, the last!
Wo, yet not long!—She linger'd but to trace
Thine image from the image in her breast,
Once, once again to see that buried face
But smile upon her, ere she went to rest.
Too sad a smile! its living light was o’er,
It answer'd hers no more.
The earth grew silent when thy voice departed,
The home too lonely whence thy step had fled;
What then was left for her, the faithful-hearted?
Death, death, to still the yearning for the dead!
Softly she perish’d:—be the Flower deplor'd
Here with the Lyre and Sword!
