THE LONELY ISLET.
I.
Lift the oar, as silently
By yon sacred isle we pass;
Know we not if still she sleeps,
Where the wind such whisper keeps,
In yon waving grass!
Death's a mocker to delight,
That we know,—and yet,—
There was that in every breath
Of her motion—in the set
Of her features, fair and whole—
In the flashing of her eye,
Spirit joyous still, and high,
Speaking the immortal soul,
In a language warm and bright—
That should mock at death!
II.
Silently!—still silently!
Oh! methinks, if it were true,
If, indeed, she sleeps—
Wakeful never, though the oar
Of the well-beloved one, nigh,
Break the water as before;—
When, with but the sea in view,
And the sky-waste, and the shore,
Or some star that, sinking, creeps,
Between whiles of speech, to show
How sweet lover's tears may flow,—
They together went, forgetting,
How the moon was near her setting,
Down amid the waters low;—
III.
Then no more should lovely things,
Moon or star, or zephyr, stoop,—
But a cloud with dusky wings,
Gloom outgiving, still should droop,
O'er that islet lone:—
And the long grass by the breeze
Sullen rising from the seas,
Should make constant moan!
Silent!—Hark!—that dipping oar,—
Oh! methinks, it roused a tone
As of one upon the shore!—
'Twas the wind that swept the grass!—
Silently, oh! silently,—
As the sacred spot we pass!
