Night and Death

THE STORM-WIND is howling

Through old pines afar;

The drear night is falling

Without moon or star.

The roused sea is lashing

The bold shore behind,

And the moan of its ebbing

Keeps time with the wind.

On, on through the darkness,

A spectre, I pass

Where, like moaning of broken hearts,

Surges the grass!

I see her lone head-stone,—

’T is white as a shroud;

Like a pall, hangs above it

The low drooping cloud.

Who speaks through the dark night

And lull of the wind?

’T is the sound of the pine-leaves

And sea-waves behind.

The dead girl is silent,—

I stand by her now;

And her pulse beats no quicker,

Nor crimsons her brow.

The small hand that trembled,

When last in my own,

Lies patient and folded,

And colder than stone.

Like the white blossoms falling

To-night in the gale,

So she in her beauty

Sank mournful and pale.

Yet I loved her! I utter

Such words by her grave,

As I would not have spoken

Her last breath to save.

Of her love the angels

In heaven might tell,

While mine would be whispered

With shudders in hell!

’T was well that the white ones

Who bore her to bliss

Shut out from her new life

The vision of this;

Else, sure as I stand here,

And speak of my love,

She would leave for my darkness

Her glory above.

Contents -BIBLIOGRAPHIC RECORD