Life rallied for an instant, and he opened those wild, fearful eyes. Oh! what a world of wretchedness and despair was in that glance! He knew her; and conquering, with a convulsive effort, the agony which was withering up the last drops of life, caught her to his heart, exclaiming,
"Clara, thou art forgiven! I am _not_ a coward; for I can even die and leave thee thus. Farewell! be happy!"
All was over. My poor friend had fought his last battle, and his antagonist and conqueror was Death. That pure and noble spirit, with all its wild and restless fever-dreams, "sleeps well" amid the beautiful solitudes of Cypress Grove Cemetery--the _home of the stranger_--where so many proud and buoyant hearts crumble beneath the golden air, new filled with odorous dew. And I wait patiently, yet sadly, for the hour which is to restore me to the friend of my bosom.
The Muse, in times more ancient, made The grove's thick gloom her dwelling-place, And, queen-like, her proud sceptre swayed O'er a submiss and trembling race.
When stirred her breath the sleeping trees, Awe-struck, with fearful feet they trod, And when her voice swelled on the breeze, Adoring bowed, as to a God!
Her wildly murmured strains they caught, As echoes from the spirit-world, Till reeled the brain, to frenzy wrought, With mixt amaze and rapture whirled!
Thus stern, retired, she swayed the earth, Till, as new dawned an age of gold, A happier era led her forth To dwell with men, like gods of old.
To dwell with us--to roam no more! _Ours_ is this golden age of bliss! She comes with blessings rich in store; And, like a sister, whispers peace.
Not now with awe-inspiring air, But gentle as the meek-eyed dove, And clad in smiles that angels wear, And with an aspect full of love.
She greets us at our fire-sides, when Sweet looks to accents sweet respond, And breathing soft her tender strain, More closely knits the silken bond.
Unmingled joy her smiles afford, Where meet the mirthful, social throng, As, gathered round the festive board, Our healths she pledges in a song.
She meets us in our private walks, 'Mid groves that fairy glens embower, When Morning gems her purple locks, Or Vesper rules the silent hour.
Her hand, upon the beech's rind, Marks well, for fair Belinda's eyes, (Else vainly murmured to the wind,) Thy flame, young Damon, and thy sighs.