[from Island Minstrelsy, 1839]
I weep, but not rebellious tears-
I mourn, but not in hopeless woo. C. A. BOWLES.
My brother's grave! my brother's grave!
'Tis lowly in the shade,
Spring's fragrant blossoms o'er it wave,
In early sweets arrayed ;
Oh ! 'tis not long since he who lies
So cold, so pale beneath,
Bloom'd like the laurel, which defies
Dread Winter's blasting breath.
Come, view the spot where flow'rets wave;
There he does calmly rest
In the shroud, the coffin, in the grave,
With cold earth on his breast;
Yes, he has gained that last low bed
Which all the living must,
And there my own beloved dead
Mingles with kindred dust.
My brother's grave'-and can it be?-
Those words do sound so strange;
He used to roam the hills with me-
The glens we used to range-
He used to mark the wild birds' flight
Beside the rushing Lhaane ;
I cannot think that eye of light
May never beam again! -
I cannot think that that blythe boy
Hath ceased to roam the dell ;
Could cold Death dim-could it destroy
The one we loved so well-
The bright black eye-the bounding breast ?
Oh ! be each doubt forgiven !
Is he not numbered with the blest
Is not his portion Heaven'
Oh! yes, he slumbers deeply there,-
The grave's oblivious gloom
Shrineth a bud-more dear, more fair
Ne'er entered to the tomb !
Oh, childhood's hours!-oh, other years !-
Ye visionary things !-
I'm borne into your smiles and tears
On memory's mystic wings.
Your blissful dreams, oh, other years !
Come rushing o'er my soul,
Your host of joys, of hopes, of fears, -
Of thoughts which spurn control ;
Ye point to that calm holy shade
Where sweet pale violets wave,
To the green hill where he is laid-
My brother's early grave.