A Southern Night

The sandy spits, the shore-lock'd lakes,
Melt into open, moonlit sea;
The soft Mediterranean breaks
&nbspAt my feet, free.

Dotting the fields of corn and vine,
Like ghosts the huge, gnarl'd olives stand.
Behind, that lovely mountain-line!
&nbspWhile, by the strand,

Cette, with its glistening houses white,
Curves with the curving beach away
To where the lighthouse beacons bright
&nbspFar in the bay.

Ah! such a night, so soft, so lone,
So moonlit, saw me once of yore
Wander unquiet, and my own
&nbspVext heart deplore.

But now that trouble is forgot;
Thy memory, thy pain, to-night,
My brother! and thine early lot,
&nbspPossess me quite.

The murmur of this Midland deep
Is heard to-night around thy grave,
There, where Gibraltar's cannon'd steep
&nbspO'erfrowns the wave.

For there, with bodily anguish keen,
With Indian heats at last fordone,
With public toil and private teen—
&nbspThou sank'st, alone.

Slow to a stop, at morning grey,
I see the smoke-crown'd vessel come;
Slow round her paddles dies away
&nbspThe seething foam.

A boat is lower'd from her side;
Ah, gently place him on the bench!
That spirit—if all have not yet died—
&nbspA breath might quench.

Is this the eye, the footstep fast,
The mien of youth we used to see,
Poor, gallant boy!—for such thou wast,
&nbspStill art, to me.

The limbs their wonted tasks refuse;
The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak;
And whiter than thy white burnous
&nbspThat wasted cheek!

Enough! The boat, with quiet shock,
Unto its haven coming nigh,
Touches, and on Gibraltar's rock
&nbspLands thee to die.

Ah me! Gibraltar's strand is far,
But farther yet across the brine
Thy dear wife's ashes buried are,
&nbspRemote from thine.

For there, where morning's sacred fount
Its golden rain on earth confers,
The snowy Himalayan Mount
&nbspO'ershadows hers.

Strange irony of fate, alas,
Which, for two jaded English, saves,
When from their dusty life they pass,
&nbspSuch peaceful graves!

In cities should we English lie,
Where cries are rising ever new,
And men's incessant stream goes by—
&nbspWe who pursue

Our business with unslackening stride,
Traverse in troops, with care-fill'd breast,
The soft Mediterranean side,
&nbspThe Nile, the East,

And see all sights from pole to pole,
And glance, and nod, and bustle by,
And never once possess our soul
&nbspBefore we die.

Not by those hoary Indian hills,
Not by this gracious Midland sea
Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills,
&nbspShould our graves be.

Some sage, to whom the world was dead,
And men were specks, and life a play;
Who made the roots of trees his bed,
&nbspAnd once a day

With staff and gourd his way did bend
To villages and homes of man,
For food to keep him till he end
&nbspHis mortal span

And the pure goal of being reach;
Hoar-headed, wrinkled, clad in white,
Without companion, without speech,
&nbspBy day and night

Pondering God's mysteries untold,
And tranquil as the glacier-snows
He by those Indian mountains old
&nbspMight well repose.

Some grey crusading knight austere,
Who bore Saint Louis company,
And came home hurt to death, and here
&nbspLanded to die;

Some youthful troubadour, whose tongue
Fill'd Europe once with his love-pain,
Who here outworn had sunk, and sung
&nbspHis dying strain;

Some girl, who here from castle-bower,
With furtive step and cheek of flame,
'Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower
&nbspBy moonlight came

To meet her pirate-lover's ship;
And from the wave-kiss'd marble stair
Beckon'd him on, with quivering lip
&nbspAnd floating hair;

And lived some moons in happy trance,
Then learnt his death and pined away—
Such by these waters of romance
&nbsp'Twas meet to lay.

But you—a grave for knight or sage,
Romantic, solitary, still,
O spent ones of a work-day age!
&nbspBefits you ill.

So sang I; but the midnight breeze,
Down to the brimm'd, moon-charmed main,
Comes softly through the olive-trees,
&nbspAnd checks my strain.

I think of her, whose gentle tongue
All plaint in her own cause controll'd;
Of thee I think, my brother! young
&nbspIn heart, high-soul'd—

That comely face, that cluster'd brow,
That cordial hand, that bearing free,
I see them still, I see them now,
&nbspShall always see!

And what but gentleness untired,
And what but noble feeling warm,
Wherever shown, howe'er inspired,
&nbspIs grace, is charm?

What else is all these waters are,
What else is steep'd in lucid sheen,
What else is bright, what else is fair,
&nbspWhat else serene?

Mild o'er her grave, ye mountains, shine!
Gently by his, ye waters, glide!
To that in you which is divine
&nbspThey were allied.