My bones on some lonely beach will perish,
And the name of the Rover none will cherish;
And Minna! Minna!-how wilt thou hear
The fate of the lover thou once held dear?
Oh! with the thought of thy much loved name,
What visions are crossing my tortured brain!
Oh! would to Heaven we nc'er had met,
Since we may not meet again!
But the die is cast, the seal is set,
And the prayer and wish are vain.'
He lifts his brows from his clasped hands,
And the form of Minna before him stands.
Pale is her cheek, but the high soul shone
In her firm, unclouded eye;
There is not in her voice one tremulous tone,
Or one wavering woman's sigh.
'Cleaveland,' she said, 'your freedom to gain,
I have hazarded all-friends, safety, fame;
But the love we once cherished, must now be o'er,
Your mates I have seen-need I tell you more ?
I have learned that the pirate chieftain's name
Is a blot on his country's scroll of fame !
Flee from this place ere the dawning light,
Your safety-my father's—all hang on your flight ;
The guards are engaged with the revel and wine,
Fold my mantle around thee and safety is thine.'
The prisoner wildly clasped her hand,
Cold as the wintry frost,
'Your father with my murderous band !—
No time must then be lost.
Minna, farewell! since part we must,
But not forever part, I trust.'
INTERVIEW BETWEEN CLEAVELAND AND MINNA. 187 He added one low and whispered word,
When a hollow voice from the tomb is heard ;
'Each tie that binds you, now must sever,
This night you part and part forever!'
Spoke a mortal voice those sounds of dread?
'Tis Norna-she of the Fitful-head.'
And now before them the Pythoness stands,
And tosses wildly her withered hands;
Her words have more than mortal meaning,
Her looks have more than mortal seeming.
'Here meet the crimson foot and hand,
In the martyr's aisle and in Orkney land.
Maiden, away from this lonely place!
Thou hast looked thy last on thy lover's face;
Thou canst not save him-I have the power
To his bark to guide him-this very hour;
But his banner of black must leave our shore,
Ere the morrow sees it dipped in gore.'
'Neath the rich mantle of the glorious sun, Who, like a god, majestically rose
From his bright chamber of eternity,
And o'er the earth his golden vapor poured.
The waters spread their crystal face, a wide,
Unbroken mirror of the ambient sky,
While on their polished surface lightly played
The dazzling sunbeams of that quiet morn.
The sporting zephyr, with the pensive leaves
In gentle dalliance, newer beauty gave,
As they were wakened from their holy rest,
And joyed, yet trembled, in the liquid light
Which bathed them in its flood. Day's balmy breath,
Rich with the morning tribute of the flowers,
Floated along to pour its hallowed sweets
Among the dwellings of the busy world.
I stood within a churchyard. Art had there
Mingled its column with the moss-grown stone
That marked the spot where humble beings lay.
The urn-crowned monument, that proudly stood
Upon the ashes of the highborn dead,
In golden blazonry described the chain
Of proud, ennobled ancestry that claimed
The buried praised one as its brightest link.
With careless eye I scanned the epitaphs
That stained the marble's purity with words-
The vainest mockery of the silent dead!
What work of art can speak the thrilling tones,
The voiceless utterance of the silent grave?
The measured movement of the plumed hearse,
The marble pile, the gilded epitaph,
Speak not the language of the broken heart.
There was a simple stone whereon was writ
'A Mother's Grave.' How eloquent the words!
They wafted me far back to other times,
When in the days of artless infancy
The silent stone had told my mother's name.
That tale seemed told again. Though youth was past,
And the cold calmness of maturer years
Had lulled the pangs my early boyhood knew,
Yet in that tongueless marble lurked a spell,
That wove around me memory's deathless joys,
'T was evening when I sought that spot again.
Beside the grave three little children stood.
The oldest was a boy, who scarce could claim
Eight summers' sports his own-the next, a girl
Whose tender spring had known but six returns→
And then, a lovely cherub, like the bud
Whose annual visit she four times had welcomed.
Each infant's hand was in the other's clasped-
A living crescent, at their mother's grave
And fondly gazing on that sacred spot
They read the withering words which said their friend,
Their dearest, truest friend, slept the deep sleep
Which wakens only in eternity.
Oh! is there in the waste of human things
A stream so pure and clear as that which wells
From the deep fountain of a mother's heart?
No! no! by the stern laws of nature, no!
In infancy's soft hour the bud is bathed
In the warm fondness of material love,
And nourished to expand in the full bloom
Of unpolluted youth-and even when
It ripens into fruit of age, the same
Nutricious fount supplies its manly strength,
And knows no hindrance to its pleasant course,
Down to the barriers of the eternal grave.
A mother's love! the strongest, truest type
Of the pure love the Saviour bears mankind!
Brightest in darkest hours! most seen when clouds
Of ignominy rest upon her boy!
And, like the diamond, showing best its power
When other gems are lost in shades of night,
Her love shines out and yields its secret rays,
When trouble lowers the blackest o'er her child.
I since have visited that holy tomb.
A pensive willow bending over it,
And a small basket filled with fresh plucked flowers
Standing beside the stone, assured my heart
That grave was not forgotten.
Those duteous children feel, whose bosoms echo
To the soft strains fond memory loves to wake
O'er some green spot on time's receding shore,
Brightly illumined by a mother's smile!
But how much holier theirs, who, looking back
Along the course their devious footsteps knew,
Perceive no stain upon the hallowed snow
Of childhood's grateful duty!
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