Cette, with its glistening houses white,
Curves with the curving beach away
To where the light-house beacons bright
Far in the bay.
Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone,
So moonlit, saw me once of yore21
Wander unquiet, and my own
Vexed heart deplore.
But now that trouble is forgot:
Thy memory, thy pain, to-night,
My brother! and thine early lot,22
Possess me quite.
The murmur of this Midland deep
Is heard to-night around thy grave,
There, where Gibraltar's cannoned steep
O'erfrowns the wave.
For there, with bodily anguish keen,
With Indian heats at last foredone,
With public toil and private teen,—
Thou sank'st alone.
Slow to a stop, at morning gray,
I see the smoke-crowned vessel come;
Slow round her paddles dies away
The seething foam.
A boat is lowered from her side;
Ah, gently place him on the bench!
That spirit—if all have not yet died—
A breath might quench.
Is this the eye, the footstep fast,
The mien of youth, we used to see?
Poor, gallant boy! for such thou wast,
Still art, to me.
