“I would wake the shell
And lull my senses to forgetfulness
With its sweet melody.”—

Unpublished Poem.

Oh pardon for a moment's space
The gushings of affections deep—
Thine early fate, lost one, to trace,
And o'er my broken treasure weep.
The blast and tempest o'er my barque
Have raged—and still the clouds are near;
The land lies far, and all is dark,
The death-song strikes upon mine ear.
There is a shadow o'er my path,
A vision in the midnight hour;—
A low still voice that shadow hath,
That dream a prophecy and pow'r:
It tells me it is better far
Where turmoil is at rest—to sleep;
Where contests cease, and night's pale star
Its faithful vigil loves to keep;—
To sleep—before all dear ones die,
Before all love and hope are flown;
For who would crave unmourned to lie,
Or live to garland memory's tomb?