IV.
A BROTHER'S DEATH.
TO HORTALUS.
“Though, Hortalus, unceasing sore distress
From the Aonian maids withdraws my mind,
For how can it the Muses' theme express,
Which toss'd by its own woes no rest can find?
“For lately hath my brother cross'd the strand
Where Lethe's wave flows by his pallid feet;
He on the Rhetian shore in Trojan land
Lies buried, and mine eyes no more shall meet.
“No more to speak to thee! no more to hear!
No more to see thee! from my bosom torn
My brother! unto me than life more dear!
Still will I ever love thee, ever mourn;—
“As in the thickest shades the Nightingale
Sings sad, of her lost Itys to complain.
Yet 'mid these woes, my friend, I do not fail
To send Battiades,—the promised strain;
“Nor think thy words are from my bosom driven
By sad distress; the pledge I now recall;
As when an apple by her lover given
Should from the virgin's bosom chance to fall;—
“Hid in her dress forgotten there it lay,
Till at her mother's entrance with a start
It falls down on the ground, and rolls away;
The conscious blush betrays her grieving heart.”
TO MANLIUS.
[_]
Car. lxviii. lin. 13.
“From me whom floods of sorrow drown
Seek not such happy gifts again.
Since first I took my manhood's gown,—
A flowery spring my life was then,—
“Much have I played,—the Goddess knows
Who blends with love sweet misery;
A brother's death now all o'erthrows,
O brother snatch'd from wretched me!
“My comforts now with thee have perish'd;
With thee our house doth buried lie;
And all the joys thy sweet love cherish'd,
Liv'd in thy life and with thee die.”
OFFERINGS AT A BROTHER'S GRAVE.
“Through many nations and through many seas,
“Brother, I come to thy sad obsequies,
“To bear thee these last gifts, by sorrow led,
“And to address in vain the silent dead.
“Since my sad lot hath me bereft of thee,
“Alas, dear brother, gone from wretched me!
“This one sad consolation now remains,
“Receive these gifts as ancient rite ordains,
“Gifts with a brother's tears all dripping o'er,
“And now, farewell, my brother, evermore.”
ON THE FOREGOING PASSAGES.
Sweetest of poets, one spot good and pure
'Mid all thy bosom stains could still endure,—
'Neath thy deep breast wherein far ruder things
Folded too oft their pestilential wings,—
The love of a lost brother;—as hope died
To nobler duties rais'd and sanctified.
As if thy tender spirit in its woes
Could in that pure affection find repose,
Like evening gleams which light surrounding gloom,—
The love of thy lost brother and thy home.
Yet could that grief most sad, most sweet, most calm,
Have met our Christian Gilead, breathing balm,
Then quieted in faith thy ruffled breast,
Finding upon the ground a tranquil nest,
Might thence have soar'd unto diviner things,
And shed a holier music from thy wings.
