Oh! there are griefs for nature too intense, Whose first rude shock but stupifies the soul; Nor hath the fragile and o’erlabour’d sense Strength e’en to _feel_ at once their dread control. But when ’tis past, that still and speechless hour Of the seal’d bosom and the tearless eye, Then the roused mind awakes, with tenfold power To grasp the fulness of its agony! Its deathlike torpor vanish’d--and its doom, To cast its own dark hues o’er life and nature’s bloom. XVII. And such _his_ lot whom thou hast loved and left, Spirit! thus early to thy home recall’d! So sinks the heart, of hope and thee bereft, A warrior’s heart, which danger ne’er appall’d. Years may pass on--and, as they roll along, Mellow those pangs which now his bosom rend; And he once more, with life’s unheeding throng, May, though alone in soul, in seeming blend; Yet still, the guardian-angel of his mind Shall thy loved image dwell, in Memory’s temple shrined. XVIII. Yet must the days be long ere time shall steal Aught from his grief whose spirit dwells with thee: Once deeply bruised, the heart at length may heal, But all it was--oh! never more shall be. The flower, the leaf, o’erwhelm’d by winter snow, Shall spring again, when beams and showers return, The faded cheek again with health may glow, And the dim eye with life’s warm radiance burn; But the pure freshness of the mind’s young bloom, Once lost, revives alone in worlds beyond the tomb. XIX. But thou! thine hour of agony is o’er, And thy brief race in brilliance hath been run; While Faith, that bids fond nature grieve no more, Tells that thy crown--though not on earth--is won. Thou, of the world so early left, hast known Nought but the bloom and sunshine--and for thee, Child of propitious stars! for thee alone, The course of love ran smooth[62] and brightly free. Not long such bliss to mortal could be given: It is enough for earth to catch one glimpse of heaven. XX. What though, ere yet the noonday of thy fame Rose in its glory on thine England’s eye, The grave’s deep shadows o’er thy prospect came? Ours is that loss--and thou wert blest to die! Thou mightst have lived to dark and evil years, To mourn thy people changed, thy skies o’ercast; But thy spring morn was all undimm’d by tears, And thou wert loved and cherish’d to the last! And thy young name, ne’er breathed in ruder tone, Thus dying, thou hast left to love and grief alone. XXI.