PUMEREAL SKETCHES. 123 



In summer's calm, in winter's gale 



Marks hallowed scenery all for me ; 

 A beacon where the heart shall stay 

 ** While storm and sunshine pass away. 



Within that grey tower's shadowy round— 

 The church-path winding by its head — 

 Arises, still, a little mound 



To mark where lies the sainted dead ; 

 Though not a tributary verse 

 Hath told when stayed my mother's hearse. 



It was a melancholy hour ! — 



Mt/ childhood then could feel it so, — 



Though others (Crowded round our door 

 As pleased to view the funeral show ; 



Or stole along with silent tread 



As fearing to disturb the dead. 



And kindred who had lived apart 



In wroth — ^we had been severed long — 



Twas soothing to my father's heart 

 To find them in the mourners' throng — - 



And each the other then forgave 



Alas — upon my mother's grave ! 



But me, a sick boy, pale and wan. 



They left at home — and ill betide. 

 The strength that brought me, when a man, 



To lay my father by her side ; 

 Though then — I felt it like relief — 

 I was not left alone in grief. 



No. V. 

 THE MOURNER OF BEAUTY. 



I remember a lorn man, he begged at the door 



In the name of Love, Honour and Duty ; 

 And i/ou wept o'er the woes of the wandering poor. 



For his song was, " The Mourner of Beauty." 

 " They bid me," said he, " wake my harp-strings to pride, 



To the war-notes of battle and danger. 

 But my song is ^Lost Love' — I have nothing beside; 



To all else is this sad heart a stranger !" 



