Original Poetry. THE RAVEN'S SONG.

New Zealander, Volume 3, Issue 110, 19 June 1847, Page 4

Original Poetry. THE RAVEN'S SONG.

'Us eight o'clock !— again it tolls, That looely parish bell, For a hundred years pei chance, or more, 1 have known it's language well! 1 saw yon ancient sycamore, A trail and slender bough, When those two graves were tenantless 1 hat guaid its precincts now. Two beauteous forms cnballow them, I mind their story yet, Twas when my black wing glauced bright, From the old church minaret! One was as sweet and rare a flower, As mortal hand could cull, Perfection lingered, till her lines. Outvied the beautiful ! The otiier was a handsome youth, And biave and stately'too, No kinder prcs*'d a maiden's lip, Or did a maiden woo. But now i wis.li my memory, 'Would shroud this piteous talc — The rose that bloom'd upon his cheek Grew delicate and pale. Methuiks 1 see the agouy Of Love's last raptuic now, The bitter, bitter tears she dropped Upon his death struck brow ! He died— l might not then have known, His melancholy late, Dut nightly would a marble hand, Suing the old church-yard gate; 1 knew, benetith that sycamore, There was a uarrow mound, Whose wild-weeds withered suddenly, When others flourished round 4 That was his grave~and it alone Her gentle wail can tell, Each throbb.ngof her broken heart, Each burning tear that fell. I know not now, how oft she came It might be weeks, or more, 1 only know, her classic brow Was winter than before. Once— twice— she came not !— and my nights Seemed to drag weaiily, She was so fair, jyet sorrowful ! 'Twas passing strange to me. 1 only saw a plumed hearse, A solemn cavalcade, And a yellow spot-where suddenly,] dnot/ur grave was made! This is my tale : — full many a day I've sut on yon old tree Whilst th' blithsotne laugh of infant groups, Rang round it merrily ! I've seen those children's glossy locks, Wax gaunt, aud gray, and grim, The brightest of then bright blue eyes, Turn lustreless and dim l I've seen the proud and penniless, Uhe bridegroom and the bride, And the hoary head of many yeais, Consorting side by side ! And many a high patrician— 'ere Youth's gaity had fled, For a glittering coronet exchange Th' panoply of the dead ! Of all who proudly walked the earth, When forty years were mine, 1 only see the white-head stone, 'Ihe tablet and the sbriue. i know not, if sareophagos, Or monumental bust, Or the blazon'd pomp of heraldry, Can consecrate the du*t • But living mockery and show, 'Ive marked at every turn, From the peasant's rude carv'd " Angel's head," To the monarch's sculptur'd urn I — The chamber of the tyrant King, No vaia distinction shows, The ashes of the mightiest, rest In passionless repose j Good n ii b h r :•— the summer's sun hath set,J Down in the crimson west, Like other birds, I'll hie me to My solitary lest. R. CROUDACE JoPXiIK.