When a mighty storm-wind smote the trees, And the thunder crashing fell, He raised the sword from its mould'ring ease And strove to burst the spell.
And thus may the fiery soul, that rides Like a knight, to the field of foes, Drink of the chill world's tempting tides And sink to a charmed repose.
The warmth of the generous heart of youth Will die in the frozen breast-- The look of Love and the voice of Truth Be charmed to a palsied rest!
In vain will the thunder a moment burst The chill of that torpor's breath; The slumbering soul shall be wakened first By the Disenchanter, Death!
Close beside the grave of the Soldier-Poet is that of his only sister, who died of grief for his loss, only surviving him long enough to sketch his portrait and burial-place. Her last wish was to be laid near him.
Lovely and gentle girl! In the spring morning of thy beauty dying-- Dust on each sunny curl, And on thy brow the grave's deep shadows lying.
Thine is a lowly bed. But the green oak, whose spreading bough hangs o'er thee, Shelters the brother's head, Who went unto his rest a little while before thee.
A perfect love was thine, Sweet sister! thou hadst made no other Idol for thy soul's shrine Save him--thy friend and guide, and only brother.
And not for Lyre and Sword-- His proud resplendant gifts of fame and glory-- Oh! not for _these_ adored Was he, whose praise thou readst in song and story.
But't was his presence threw, O'er all thy life, a deep delight and blessing; And with thy growth it grew, Strengthening each thought of thy young heart's possessing.
Amid each dear home-scene That thou and he from childhood trod together, Thou hadst his arm to lean Upon, through every change of dark or sunny weather.
And when he passed from Earth, The rose from thy soft cheek and bright lip faded; Gloom was on hall and hearth-- A deep voice in thy soul, by sorrow over-shaded.
Joy had gone forth with _him_; The green Earth lost its spell, and the blue Heaven Unto thine eye grew dim; And thou didst pray for Death, as for a rich boon given!
_It came_!--and joy to know, That from _his_ resting-place _thine_ none would sever, And blessing God didst go, Where in his presence thou shouldst dwell forever.
Thou didst but stay to trace The imaged likeness of the dear departed; To sketch his burial-place-- Then die, O, sister! fond and faithful hearted.