92
What but a desart to his eye, that earth,
Which but retains of thee the memory of thy worth?
XVI.
Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense,
Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul;
Nor hath the fragile and o'erlaboured sense
Strength e'en to feel, at once, their dread countrol.
But when 'tis past, that still and speechless hour
Of the sealed bosom, and the tearless eye,
Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power,
To grasp the fulness of its agony!
Its death-like torpor vanished—and its doom;
To cast its own dark hues o'er life and nature's bloom.
XVII.
And such his lot, whom thou hast loved and left,
Spirit! thus early to thy home recalled!
So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft,
A warrior's heart! which danger ne'er appalled.
Years may pass on—and, as they roll along,
Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend;
And he once more, with life's unheeding throng,
May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend;
