Graham's Magazine Vol XXXII No. 6 June 1848

Though sweet to live, more blest to die,
For those that strong affections tie
Has fettered to the clinging heart,
With links not Death can wholly part.

XII

The day wore on, and down the West,
The sun had rolled in his unrest;
While gorgeous clouds of gold and red,
Reflected back the splendor fled;
And twilight – pensive nun, to pray,
In silence drew her veil of gray.
The last bright gleam was waxing pale,
And low night winds began their wail,
When near a ruined house, that stood
Within a grove of tulip wood,
Young Lennard paused and gazed awhile,
With clouded brow and saddened smile,
On trampled flowers, and shrubs, and vine,
Torn from the pillar it would twine
With verdant bloom, and casting round
Its scarlet blossoms on the ground.
A waste of weeds the garden lay,
And grass grew in the carriage way;
Cold desolation, like a pall,
Had spread its mantle over all;
Yet not the creeping touch of Time,
Had wrecked that dwelling in its prime.
The fierce and unrelenting wrath
Of human war had crossed that path,
And left its trace on all things near,
Save the blue sky above our sphere.
Anon, with hurried step and free,
He crossed the ruined balcony,
And passing by the fallen door,
Stood on the dark hall's oaken floor.
Lighting the pine-torch that he bore,
He watched its lurid beams explore
The gloomy precincts, and passed on,
As one who knew each winding well,
To a low room that lay beyond,
And echoed to the south wind's knell.
Upon the threshold crushed and lone,
By rude marauder's hand o'erthrown,
The holy volume lay;
He raised it from its station there,
And smoothed the crumpled leaves with care,
Then sadly turned away
To gaze upon a portrait near,
Whose thoughtful eyes, so calm and clear,
And chastened look and lofty mien,
And forehead noble and serene,
Told of a spirit touched by time
Only to soften and sublime;
Of woman's earnest faith and love
Surmounting earth to soar above.

XIII

With quivering lip the boy gazed long;
Unheeded and unmarked a throng
Might there have met, so fixed his soul
On Memory's unfolding scroll.
He knew not that the hours crept by,
And sullen grew the deepening night;
Again he met his mother's eye,
As erst in joyous days and bright,
And heard the accents clear and mild,
Now hushed in death, breathe o'er her child
A fervent blessing and a prayer;
Again his father's silver hair
Gleamed on his sight, although the tomb
Had closed him in its rayless gloom.

XIV

His leathern cap aside was flung,
And o'er his brow the dark locks hung
In wild confusion, as he stood
Amid that haunted solitude,
Raising the blazing torch to throw
Upon the pictured face its glow.
In him a careless eye might see
A semblance of that face in life;
With more of fire and energy
To brave the storm and strife;
With more of earthly hope to claim,
And less of Heaven – yet still the same.

XV

But suddenly the mystic spell
That bound him to the Past was rent;
The vivid lightning, forked and red,
Flashed through the broken casement, blent
With the loud thunder's awful roar,
Prolonged and echoing o'er and o'er.
The warring of the world without
Offended not the struggling heart;