Page:The Siege of Valencia.pdf/219

Rh

As a pale gleaming shroud, seem kindled up With a young spirit of ethereal hope Caught from thy mien!—Oh no! this is not death!

Why should not He, whose touch dissolves our chain, Put on his robes of beauty when he comes As a deliverer?—He hath many forms, They should not all be fearful!—If his call Be but our gathering to that distant land For whose sweet waters we have pined with thirst, Why should not its prophetic sense be borne Into the heart's deep stillness, with a breath Of summer-winds, a voice of melody, Solemn, yet lovely?—Mother! I depart! —Be it thy comfort, in the after-days, That thou hast seen me thus!

Distract me not With such wild fears! Can I bear on with life When thou art gone?—Thy voice, thy step, thy smile, Pass'd from my path?—Alas! even now thine eye Is changed—thy cheek is fading!

Aye, the clouds