VI. ONE writes, that Other friends remain,' That Loss is common to the race ' And common is the commonplace, And vacant chaff well meant for grain. That loss is common would not make O father, wheresoe'er thou be, That pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor, while thy head is bow'd, His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, here to-day, Or here to-morrow will he come. O somewhere, meek unconscious dove, Poor child, that waitest for thy love! For now her father's chimney glows In expectation of a guest; And thinking this will please him best,' She takes a riband or a rose; For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; And, having left the glass, she turns Once more to set a ringlet right; And, even when she turn'd, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, Or kill'd in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what to me remains of good? And unto me, no second friend. VII. DARK house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a hand, A hand that can be clasp'd no more- And like a guilty thing I creep At earliest morning to the door. He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. VIII. A HAPPY lover who has come To look on her that loves him well, Who lights and rings the gateway bell, And learns her gone and far from home; He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight: So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there |