 | The Poems of J. J. Callanan |  |
78
LINES, ON THE DEATH OF AN AMIABLE AND HIGHLY TALENTED YOUNG MAN, WHO FELL A VICTIM TO FEVER IN THE WEST INDIES.
All rack'd on his feverish bed he lay,
And none but the stranger were near him;
No friend to console, in his last sad day,
No look of affection to cheer him.
And none but the stranger were near him;
No friend to console, in his last sad day,
No look of affection to cheer him.
Frequent and deep were the groans he drew,
On that couch of torture turning;
And often his hot, wild hand he threw
O'er his brows, still wilder burning.
On that couch of torture turning;
And often his hot, wild hand he threw
O'er his brows, still wilder burning.
But, Oh! what anguish his bosom tore,
How throbbed each strong pulse of emotion,
When he thought of the friends he should never see more,
In his own green Isle of the Ocean.
How throbbed each strong pulse of emotion,
When he thought of the friends he should never see more,
In his own green Isle of the Ocean.
When he thought of the distant maid of his heart,—
Oh, must they thus darkly sever;—
No last farewell, ere his spirit depart;—
Must he leave her unseen, and for ever!
Oh, must they thus darkly sever;—
No last farewell, ere his spirit depart;—
Must he leave her unseen, and for ever!
79
One sigh for that maid his fond heart heaved,
One pray'r for her weal he breathed;
And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had grieved,
Once looked,—and for ever were sheathed.
One pray'r for her weal he breathed;
And his eyes to that land for whose woes he had grieved,
Once looked,—and for ever were sheathed.
On a cliff that by footstep is seldom prest,
Far sea-ward its dark head rearing,
A rude stone marks the place of his rest;—
‘Here lies a poor exile of Erin.’
Far sea-ward its dark head rearing,
A rude stone marks the place of his rest;—
‘Here lies a poor exile of Erin.’
Yet think not, dear Youth, tho' far, far away
From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping,
That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day,
That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping.
From thy own native Isle thou art sleeping,
That no heart for thy slumber is aching to-day,
That no eye for thy mem'ry is weeping.
Oh! yes—when the hearts that have wailed thy young blight,
Some joy from forgetfulness borrow,
The thought of thy doom will come over their light,
And shade them more deeply with sorrow.
Some joy from forgetfulness borrow,
The thought of thy doom will come over their light,
And shade them more deeply with sorrow.
And the maid who so long held her home in thy breast,
As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow,
Will vainly embrace, as it comes from the west,
Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow.
As she strains her wet eye o'er the billow,
Will vainly embrace, as it comes from the west,
Every breeze that has swept o'er thy pillow.
| The Poems of J. J. Callanan | |