104 VOICES FEOM THE WOODLANDS. 



LAMENT FOR THE RAVEN, 



" Poor bird, the year's mild cheering dawn 

 Upon thee shone, a momentary light ; 

 The gales of spring upbore thee for a day, 

 And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now, 

 And liest among thy hopes and promises 

 Beautiful flowers, and freshly springing blades 

 Gasping thy life out. Here for thee the grass 

 Tenderly makes a bed ; and the young buds 

 In silence open their fair painted folds : 

 To ease thy pain, the one ; to cheer thee, these ; 

 For thou art restless, and thy once keen eye 

 Is dull and sightless now. Just budding boughs, 

 Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee. 

 Thy mate is calling for thee to the white-piled clouds 

 And asks for thee. No answer give they back. 

 As I look up to their bright angel faces, 

 Intelligent and capable of voice 

 They seem to me. Their silence to my soul 

 Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird. 

 Silence or sound : for thee there is no sound, 

 No silence. Near thee stands the shadow, Death ; 

 And now he slowly draws his sable veil 

 Over thine eyes ; thy senses soft he lulls 

 Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call 



