Sister, only one befriending,
Save with lying words of breath —
Sister, only one attending
Sorrow's couch and Sickness' death —

Lo, a day is newly breaking
Whose decline I may not see;
And thy lover's lute is waking
Thee, who slightest sleep for me.

Lift the lattice, and assure him
With a smile that thou art his;
And if absence woundeth, cure him
With a look that hopes of bliss.

Happier lover he than ever
Love would let thy brother be;
What he loves is his, and never
May he be unblest as me!

Had I been like him caressed
With the love of such a heart,
Not for heaven and the blessed
Would I willingly depart.

Droop not, sigh not, and thy weeping
For my fated end give o'er;
Could it stay me from death's sleeping,
Weep I would not have thee more!

Mourn not — dying is not dying,
Unto those who wish to die;
But a hope to the relying,
And a change from grief to joy.

Who would cling to this base being,
That hath any hopes on high;
Who would murmur when th' All-seeing
Sees 'tis meet that we should die!

Haply it were grievous, leaving
Life, which should be only joy,
But that passions interweaving
With its hopes, its hopes destroy.

Haply it were cause for mourning,
That I lived and die unloved;
But that Grief will touch the scorning,
When the scorned is removed.

Dying for her, it may grieve me
That she never lived for me;
Yet when life's last sigh shall leave me,
'Twill be breathed alone for thee —

Thee, the only one befriending,
Save with lying words of breath —
Thee, the only one attending
Sorrow's couch and Sickness' death!

She who gave the stab that slayeth
Should the wound have medicined;
But the heart which Love betrayeth
Never can be more unkind!

Tell her, though for truth I perish,
That her falsehood I forgive;
And if thought of me she cherish,
Let her think that still I live —

Though my bones the while be rotten
As the hopes I once would trust;
And who knew me have forgotten
All save that which never must

Die with me, but aye-surviving,
Give the life that's after death —
Fame — the life of life, which living,
Crowns me with a deathless wreath!

But if then she scorneth proudly
Lowly Love and humble Fame,
Tell her that the world shall loudly
Speak my wrongs, and cry her shame!

Let her learn by this love-token,
(Humble gift, but ah! 'tis true,)
That my vow was only broken
When my heart was broken too!

Take it, with these tears which gem it,
Wept from Passion's ruined heart;
And let those who would condemn it,
Love like me, and dying part.

Had I been a wanton wooer,
And adored with feigned excess;
Had she loved me warmer, truer —
And I loved her wiser, less —

Then my life had not been blighted;
Then these griefs would not consume;
And the broken vows we plighted
Had not struck me to the tomb.

Hah! death's blood is coldly welling
In my heavy, sinking heart;
And my soul is proudly swelling
Upon wings which yearn to start.

Yes — my heart is slowly breaking,
And thy cares will end with me;
I shall wing where no awaking
Brings a morn of misery!

Joys were mine, most sweet and ample,
Such as youth will ever have;
Life had flowers, till she did trample
All but those will deck my grave!

Hopes I had, high ones and many —
Now not one of earth is left;
And my heart, once strong as any,
Fate hath crushed, and Falsehood cleft!

Who would cling to hopeless being,
That hath better hopes on high;
Who would murmur when th' All-seeing
Wills, in mercy, we should die!

Let me feel thine hands in dying
Clasp my brow, which chills with death;
Let me taste thy life-warm sighing
Give to my death-gasping breath!

And when Silence seals for ever
These true lips, do this by me —
Kiss and close them, for they never
Parted without blessing thee!

And my harp, whose plaintive story
Drew your innocent young tear,
(Once my pain, my joy, my glory,)
Lay it on its master's bier;

And when Frailty's frame you bury,
Place it in this lifeless hand,
Which its cords among would hurry,
Waking, at its strong command,

Songs of war, and sounds of clangor;
Lays that were Love's earliest lore;
Airs which Madness soothed and Anger, —
But will never wake them more!

I ask of thee the yearly shedding
Of all flowers that garland Spring;
Fall them light on life's last bedding,
And heaven will bless the offering.

Breathe there the hymn that Bard the dearest
Framed for lips as pure as thine;
And if a spirit's sigh thou hearest,
By its sadness know it mine.

Sister, fail not to see duly
All the rites I ask performed;
Adding prayers, from heart as holy
As Love's fervour ever warmed.

Droop not — sigh not — and thy weeping
For my fated end give o'er;
Could it stay me from death's sleeping,
Weep I would not have thee more!

Sure an angel's arms entwined me —
Or, my Sister, were they thine?
Still, oh still caressing, bind me —
Let me still in heaven recline!

Nearer, Sister, nearer — nearer —
Thou art all that lives of me;
Feel my heart's last beat, thou dearer
Far than fame, and song, and she — —

Ah, I read I should not name her,
In the scorning of thine eye;
Never, as thou lovest me, blame her —
Scorn should with Forgiveness die! —

Hush thee! There are angels winging
Visibly within the room —
Come to claim, with joy and singing,
What is heaven's from the tomb!

Hear'st thou not their heavenly voices,
Which have borrowed tones of thine?
My soul hears them, and rejoices
With an ecstasy divine!

Lay me lightly on my pillow,
With that gentleness thine own;
I can die as calm as billow
When the winds have dropt it down.

All is past, and all forgiven! —
If my hopes have any worth,
We shall meet and love in heaven,
Though we might not upon earth.

Nearer, Sister, nearer — nearer —
Thou art all that lives of me;
Feel my heart's last throb * * * *

*****