Page:The Poets and Poetry of the West.djvu/247

 1830-40.] WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE. 231 For our sorrow is a worship, worship true, and pure, and calm, Sounding from the choir of duty like a high, heroic psalm, In its very darkness bearing to the bleed- ing heart a balm. Brothers, we must have no wailing : do we agonize alone ? Look at all the pallid millions ; hear a uni- versal moan, From the mumbling, low-browed Bush- man to a Lytton on his throne. Nor shall we have coward faltering : Brothers ! we must be sublime By due labor at the forges blazing in the cave of time : Knowing life was made for duty, and that only cowards prate Of a search for Happy Valleys and the hard decrees of fate : Seeing through this night of mourning all the future as a star. And a joy at last appearing on the centu- ries afar, When the meaning of the sorrow, when the mystery shall be plain, When the Earth shall see her rivers roll through Paradise again. O ! the vision gives to sorrow something white and purple-plumed : Even the hurricane of Evil comes a hurri- cane perfumed. THE HUSBAND TO HIS DYING WIFE. Be gentle, gentle ! she will soon Pass from my sight away ; Gently, most gently ! soon the light Must leave the lovely clay, Making me desolate. Awhile I shall behold her tender smile Beam like an Eden-ray ; And I must walk, when it has flown. Along the world's great paths alone. I will be gentle as the wind That comes from out the west On soft, low-murmuring wuigs to lay A dying rose to rest. I'll walk about her couch as mild As leaves a-falhng in a wild That takes its Autumn-guest ; Or sit and watch her feeble breath, As cahn as Love can watch for death. Pale, beauteous one ! I know full well Thy heart is also wrung. That round the bridal rose a wreath Of solemn cypress clung ; I know it by a mournful sign, For when thy thin white hand's in mine. It trembles like a bird among The icy branches, while she knows That winter calleth to repose : I know it by the tender tone That shades thy voice ; for thou Didst try to speak some words to me Last night when on thy brow I pressed a mournful kiss. Thy word Went oflp into the past, unheard. As day is passing now ; But yet its music spoke of grief. And bridal hours which were so brief. 0, dear one ! when thy form is cold. And heaven hath won my star ; When I must struggle on through life, Impatient of its war ; How can I walk in lonely eves. Under the old familiar leaves. Knowing that thou 'rt afar ? And yet where else, when thou 'rt away. Can I go out to weep and pray ? Now listen, love ! one hope alone, Life of my life ! can cheer My tortured soul when thou hast gone Into the upper sphere —