The Poetical Works of David Macbeth Moir :: :: University of Virginia Library

Vainly for us the sunbeams shine,
Dimm'd is our joyous hearth;
O Casa, dearer dust than thine
Ne'er mixed with mother earth!
Thou wert the corner-stone of love,
The keystone of our fate;
Thou art not! Heaven scowls dark above,
And earth is desolate!

II

Ocean may rave with billows curl'd,
And moons may wax and wane,
And fresh flowers blossom; but this world
Shall claim not thee again.
Closed are the eyes which bade rejoice
Our hearts till love ran o'er;
Thy smile is vanish'd, and thy voice
Silent for evermore!

III

Yes; thou art gone—our hearth's delight,
Our boy so fond and dear;
No more thy smiles to glad our sight,
No more thy songs to cheer;
No more thy presence, like the sun,
To fill our home with joy:
Like lightning hath thy race been run,
As bright as swift, fair boy.

IV

Now winter, with its snow departs,
The green leaves clothe the tree;
But summer smiles not on the hearts
That bleed and break for thee:
The young May weaves her flowery crown,
Her boughs in beauty wave;
They only shake their blossoms down
Upon thy silent grave.

V

Dear to our souls is every spot
Where thy small feet have trod;
There odours, breathed from Eden, float,
And sainted is the sod;
The wild-bee with its buglet fine,
The blackbird singing free,
Melt both thy Mother's heart and mine—
They speak to us of thee!

VI

Only in dreams thou comest now
From Heaven's immortal shore,
A glory round that infant brow,
Which Death's pale signet bore:
'Twas thy fond looks, 'twas thy fond lips,
That lent our joys their tone;
And life is shaded with eclipse,
Since thou from earth art gone.

VII

Thine were the fond, endearing ways,
That tenderest feeling prove;
A thousand wiles to win our praise,
To claim and keep our love;
Fondness for us thrill'd all thy veins;
And, Casa, can it be
That nought of all the past remains
Except vain tears for thee?

VIII

Idly we watch thy form to trace
In children on the street;
Vainly, in each familiar place,
We list thy pattering feet;
Then, sudden, o'er these fancies crush'd,
Despair's black pinions wave;
We know that sound for ever hush'd—
We look upon thy grave.

IX

O heavenly child of mortal birth!
Our thoughts of thee arise,
Not as a denizen of earth,
But inmate of the skies:
To feel that life renew'd is thine,
A soothing balm imparts;
We quaff from out Faith's cup divine,
And Sabbath fills our hearts.

X

Thou leanest where the fadeless wands
Of amaranth bend o'er;
Thy white wings brush the golden sands
Of Heaven's refulgent shore.
Thy home is where the psalm and song
Of angels choir abroad;
And blessed spirits, all day long,
Bask round the throne of God.

XI

There chance and change are not; the soul
Quaffs bliss as from a sea,
And years, through endless ages, roll,
From sin and sorrow free:
There gush for aye fresh founts of joy,
New raptures to impart;
Oh! dare we call thee still our boy,
Who now a seraph art?

XII

A little while—a little while—
Ah! long it cannot be!
And thou again on us wilt smile,
Where angels smile on thee.
How selfish is the worldly heart—
How sinful to deplore!
Oh! that we were where now thou art,
Not lost, but gone before.

The almost Christian sentiment of the great heathen moralist, Seneca.

April 1838.