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THE CHARMS OF AUTUMN. 65
And no mother bent above them,
With affection's sacred tear; She who would have died to save them,
In that hour could not be near!
Death is dismal when the parting
Is not clouded over thus; "When we see, amid its terrors,
Looks of fondness and of trust.
Dying looks—0, how we prize them !
How we bind them to the heart! And the feeblest, faltering accent,
Cannot from our ears depart.
Death is fearful when his signet On the brow is gently placed ;
When, amid the lines of sorrow,
Thoughts of sweetness may be traced.
But to have the fondly cherish'd Pass without the last farewell—
This is sorrow, this is anguish, That the heart may never tell!
THE CHARMS OF AUTUMN.
A mellow haze is hanging now
Its shadowy veil athwart the sky; Voices of autumn, strange and low, Go murmuring by. 5 |
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