One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’

One writes, that ‘Other friends remain,’That ‘Loss is common to the race’--And common is the commonplace,And vacant chaff well meant for grain.

That loss is common would not makeMy own less bitter, rather more:Too common! Never morning woreTo evening, but some heart did break.

O father, wheresoe’er thou be,That pledgest now thy gallant son;A shot, ere half thy draught be doneHath still’d the life that beat from thee.

O mother, praying God will saveThy sailor,--while thy head is bow’d,His heavy-shotted hammock-shroudDrops in his vast and wandering grave.

Ye know no more than I who wroughtAt that last hour to please him well;Who mused on all I had to tell,And something written, something thought;

Expecting still his advent home;And ever met him on his wayWith wishes, thinking, here to-day,Or here to-morrow will he come.

O! somewhere, meek unconscious dove,That sittest ranging golden hair;And glad to find thyself so fair,Poor child, that waitest for thy love!

For now her father’s chimney glowsIn expectation of a guest;And thinking ‘this will please him best,’She takes a riband or a rose;

For he will see them on to-night;And with the thought her colour burns;And, having left the glass, she turnsOnce more to set a ringlet right;

And, even when she turn’d, the curseHad fallen, and her future LordWas drown’d in passing thro’ the ford,Or kill’d in falling from his horse.

O, what to her shall be the end?And what to me remains of good?To her, perpetual maidenhood,And unto me, no second friend.