Page:Court Journal 1835.pdf/11



It was not the ash-tree, the home of the wren, And the haunt of the bee, I was thinking of then; Nor yet of the violets, sweet on the air, But I thought of the true love who planted them there. I come to thee now, my long hair on the gale, It is wreathed with no red rose, is bound with no veil; It is dark with the sea damps, and wet with the spray–- The gold of its auburn has long past away.

And dark is the cavern wherein I have slept;— There the seal and the dolphin their vigil have kept; And the roof is encrusted with white coral cells, Wherein the strange insect that buildeth them dwells. There is life in the shells that are strewed o'er the sands, Not filled, but with music, as on our own strands; Around me are whitening the bones of the dead, And a starfish has grown to the rock overhead.

Sometimes a vast shadow goes darkly along, The shark or the sword-fish, the fearful and strong; There is fear in the eyes that are glaring around, As they pass, like the spectres of death, without sound: Over rocks without summer, the dull sea-weeds trail, And the blossoms that spring there are scentless and pale; Amid their dark garlands the water-snake glides, And the sponge, like the moss, gathers thick at their sides.

Oh! would that the sunshine could fall on my grave— That the wild-flower and willow could over it wave; Oh! would that the daisies grew over my sleep, That the tears of the morning could over me weep. Thou art pale mid thy dreams—I shall trouble no more, The sorrow that kept me from slumber is o'er: To the depths of the ocean in peace I depart, For I still have a grove greener far in thy heart!