'Oh, call my brother back to me! I cannot play alone; The summer comes with flower and bee-- Where is my brother gone? 'The butterfly is glancing bright Across the sunbeam's track; I care not now to chase its flight-- Oh, call my brother back! 'The flowers run wild--the flowers we sow'd Around our garden tree; Our vine is drooping with its load-- Oh, call him back to me!' 'He could not hear thy voice, fair child, He may not come to thee; The face that once like spring-time smiled, On earth no more thou'lt see. 'A rose's brief bright life of joy, Such unto him was given; Go--thou must play alone, my boy! Thy brother is in heaven!' 'And has he left his birds and flowers, And must I call in vain? And, through the long, long summer hours, Will he not come again? 'And by the brook, and in the glade, Are all our wanderings o'er? Oh, while my brother with me play'd, Would I had loved him more!' THE GRAVES OF A HOUSEHOLD They grew in beauty side by side, They filled one home with glee, Their graves are severed far and wide, By mount, and stream, and sea. The same fond mother bent at night O'er each fair sleeping brow, She had each folded flower in sight, Where are those dreamers now? One midst the forests of the West, By a dark stream, is laid; The Indian knows his place of rest Far in the cedar's shade. The sea, the blue lone sea, hath one, He lies where pearls lie deep, He was the loved of all, yet none O'er his low bed may weep. One sleeps where southern vines are drest Above the noble slain; He wrapt his colours round his breast On a blood-red field of Spain. And one, o'er her the myrtle showers Its leaves, by soft winds fann'd; She faded midst Italian flowers, The last of that bright band. And, parted thus, they rest--who played Beneath the same green tree, Whose voices mingled as they prayed Around one parent knee! They that with smiles lit up the hall, And cheered with song the hearth, Alas for love, if thou wert all, And nought beyond, oh earth! CASABIANCA The boy stood on the burning deck, Whence all but him had fled; The flame that lit the battle's wreck, Shone round him o'er the dead. Yet beautiful and bright he stood, As born to rule the storm; A creature of heroic blood, A proud, though child-like form. The flames roll'd on--he would not go, Without his father's word; That father, faint in death below, His voice no longer heard. He call'd aloud--'Say, father, say If yet my task is done?' He knew not that the chieftain lay Unconscious of his son. 'Speak, father!' once again he cried, 'If I may yet be gone!' --And but the booming shots replied, And fast the flames roll'd on.