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Page 15
He said no more, for on the air
Rose the deep murmuring of despair;
One shriek of agonizing woe
Broke on his ear, and all was o'er;
For midst the waves' eternal flow,
The boy had sank to rise no more.
When springing from the dizzy steep,
He winged his way 'twixt earth and sky,
The affrighted hound beheld the deep,
And starting back, he shunned the leap,
And by this fatal check he drew
Death on himself and master too.
But those wild waves of death and strife
Flowed deeply, wildly as before,
Though he was reft of light and life,
And sunk in death to rise no more.
And he was gone! his mother's smile
No more shall welcome his return.
Ah! little did she think the while,
Her fate through life would be to mourn!
And his stern sire; how will he brook
The tale that tells his child is low!
How will the haughty tyrant look,
And writhe beneath the hopeless blow!
While conscience, with his vengeance sure,
Shall grant no peace, and feel no cure.
Aye, weep! for thee, no pitying eye
Shall shed the sympathizing tear;
Hopeless and childless shalt thou die,
And none shall mourn above thy bier.
Thy race extinct; no more thy name
Shall proudly swell the lists of fame.
Thou art the last! with thee shall die
Thy proud descent and lineage high;
No more on Barden's hills shall swell
The mirth inspiring bugle note;
No more o'er mountain, vale and, dell,
Its well known sounds shall wildly float.
Other sounds shall steal along,
Other music swell the song;
The deep funeral wail of wo,
In solemn cadence, now shall spread
Its strains of sorrow, sad and slow,
In requiem dirges for the dead.
Why has the Lady left her home,
And quitted every earthly care,
And sought, in deep monastic gloom,
The holy balm that centres there?
Oh! ill that Lady's eye could brook
On those deserted scenes to look,
Where she so oft had marked her child,
With all a mother's joy and smiled,
For not a shrub, or tree or flower,
But brought to mind some happy hour,
And called to life some vision fair.
When her young hope stood smiling there.
But he was gone! and what had she
To do with love, or hope, or pride,
For every feeling, warm and free,
Had left her when young Duncan died;
And she had nought on earth beside.
One single throb was lingering yet,
And that forbade her to forget;
Forget! what spell can calm the soul?
Should memory o'er its pulses roll
Through almost every night of grief,
We still hope for the morrow;
But what to those can bring relief,
Who pine in endless sorrow.
--EMMA TUCKER.
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