Væsemsky.

My brothers! whither scatter’d now? What fate—what cruel fate could sever Hands—souls—fast-bound—divided never? But ye are fled—and fled for ever, And I am left alone with woe! The sigh I heave in silence here, The careless zephyr bears away; ’Tis lost in twilight’s darkening ray— ’Tis veil’d in night—it fades in day— It ne’er will reach your listening ear. Perchance even now, while round me roll Dark storms and misty clouds—even now, Pain’s icy sweat upon his brow, One calls upon his friend—and oh! Death’s wintry curtain wraps his soul. Then sleep in peace, thou spirit blest! My spirit seems to cling to thee; From sorrow—to felicity Wafted—thy bark has pass’d the sea Of storms—in joy’s calm port to rest. How long shall absence’ misery last? When, when shall dawn the hour of meeting? Shall ne’er again the blessed greeting Of social bliss return?—How fleeting Its rapture—’Tis for ever past! Cold—cold—I feel my heart;—delight Can kindle ne’er its fire again— My tears flow forth—they flow in vain; My smiles—no light those smiles retain; For what awaked it sinks in night. Time was—how blessed to recall That time—when our hands garlanded The fairest wreaths of roses red, And in youth’s spring the chorus led To heaven—the source, the end of all. Time was—but like a dream it fled! The hymn—’tis now a funeral dirge; The garland—’tis affliction’s scourge; The dance—its memories now emerge Like ghosts, that wander midst the dead. And now the plaint ascends!—Appear, Appear, delightful hours, anew! Spirit of youth, so fond, so true, Awake!—Suns, once so bright, so few, Shine—let illusion’s mockery cheer! But see! the darkness creeps away— The clouds disperse—the storm is gone— Thy smile returns not—blessed one!— The mountains see the morning dawn— To me, alas! there dawns no day.

As in the mid-day sun the flower Looks brightest, and then bends its head, So fell thy son—how short his hour Of bliss—how rapidly he fled! Yet o’er his cradle—o’er his tomb, An everlasting daylight shone; A promise of bright days to come— Why came he—only to be gone? As mounts the incense to the skies, A towering cloud—with cold, pale cheek Thou saw’st him to his Maker rise, And his own blessed country seek. He gave to thee his last, last sigh, Ere yet he heaved his latest breath; He turn’d to thee his dying eye, Ere it was mantled o’er by death. Thou hadst indulged the sweetest dream Which hope e’er built, or time decay’d; And in the future’s distant beam Thy son a friend, a brother made. The hours of youth’s delightful reign, And rapture’s early, spring-tide joy; Thou in his smiles hadst shared again, And in thy boy wert twice a boy. That vision is departed—Sleep Soon leaves the weary, mortal eye: Go—with his funeral cypress—weep; Thy spirit’s peace is slumbering nigh. With thine my mingling tears I’ll bring— Their bitterness he cannot know;— The morning-rose I’ll o’er him fling— He was a rose of morning too.

The waves of Seine have seen the banner, The eagle-banner, floating high; There do the winds of glory fan her, While flap her pinions to the sky. Hers was a night of gloom—but morning Has dawn’d on her triumphant flight; And now, all fear and weakness scorning, She soars to liberty and light.