There, o'er the tide, her kindred sleep, And she would sleep beside them-- It may not be! for the sea is deep, And the waves--the waves divide them! It may not be! for the flush is flown, That lighted her lily cheek-- 'Twas the passing beam, ere the sun goes down.-- Life's last and loveliest streak. 'Tis gone, and a dew is o'er her now-- The dew of the mornless eve-- No morrow will shine on that pallid brow, For the spirit hath ta'en its leave. * * * * * The ship heaves to, and the funeral rite, O'er the lovely form is said, And the rough man's cheek with tears is bright, As he lowers the gentle dead. The corse sinks down, alone--alone, To its dark and dreary grave, And the soul on a lightened wing hath flown, To the world beyond the wave. * * * * * 'Tis a fearful thing in the sea to sleep Alone in a silent bed-- 'Tis a fearful thing on the shoreless deep Of the spirit-world to tread! The Dream of Youth. [Illustration: The Dream of Youth] In days of yore, while yet the world was new, And all around was beautiful to view-- When spring or summer ruled the happy hours, And golden fruit hung down mid opening flowers; When, if you chanced among the woods to stray, The rosy-footed dryad led the way,-- Or if, beside a mountain brook, your path, You ever caught some naïad at her bath: 'Twas in that golden day, that Damon strayed. Musing, alone, along a Grecian glade. Retired the scene, yet in the morning light, Athens in view, shone glimmering to the sight. 'Twas far away, yet painted on the skies, It seemed a marble cloud of glorious dyes, Where yet the rosy morn, with lingering ray, Loved on the sapphire pediments to play. But why did Damon heed the _distant_ scene? For he was young, and all around was green: A noisy brook was romping through the dell, And on his ear the laughing echoes fell: Along his path the stooping wild flowers grew, And woo'd the very zephyrs as they flew. Then why young Damon, heeding nought around, Seemed in some thrall of distant vision bound, I cannot tell--but dreamy grew his gaze, And all his thought was in a misty maze. Awhile he sauntered--then beneath a tree, He sat him down, and there a reverie Came o'er his spirit like a spell,--and bright, A truth-like vision, shone upon his sight. Around on every side, with glowing pinions, A circling band, as if from Jove's dominions, All wooing came, and sought with wily art, To steal away the youthful dreamer's heart. One offered wealth--another spoke of fame, And held a wreath to twine around his name. One brought the pallet, and the magic brush, By which creative art bids nature blush, To see her rival--and the artful boy,