Manchurian Books

And there in mountain-privacy
My father's rustic cot appears,
The haunts of happy infancy,
The fields my childish sport endears;
Where victor of each game I stood,
And climb'd the tree, or stemm'd the flood:
And there, beside the village-spire,
My mother's honour'd ashes sleep,
Who bade my noble hopes aspire,
Who also taught me first to weep,
When, with a kiss so cold and mild,
She whisper'd, 'I must die, my child.'
Oh! fitted for a world more pure,
Sweet spirit, who would wish thy stay,
To witness woes thou could'st not cure,
And dimm'd with clouds thy evening ray;
To see thy ardent boy denied
To combat by his father's side?
Yet, what is death? As seen in thee,
'Twas a mild summons to the grave;
'Tis the sure zeal of loyalty
And honour's guerdon to the brave.
How are the soldier's requiems kept!
By glory sung, by beauty wept.
"My dearest Eustace," said Isabel, "I wish I could send these lines to
my father, yet perhaps they would overcome him as they have done me.


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