A Southern Night

The sandy spits, the shore-lockd lakes,     Melt into open, moonlit sea;     The soft Mediterranean breaks     At my feet, free.     Dotting the fields of corn and vine     Like ghosts, the huge, gnarld olives stand;     Behind, that lovely mountain-line!     While by the strand     Cette, with its glistening houses white,     Curves with the curving beach away     To where the lighthouse beacons bright     Far in the bay.     Ah, such a night, so soft, so lone,     So moonlit, saw me once of yore     Wander unquiet, and my own     Vext heart deplore!     But now that trouble is forgot;     Thy memory, thy pain, to-night,     My brother! and thine early lot,     Possess me quite.     The murmur of this Midland deep     Is heard to-night around thy grave     There where Gibraltars cannond steep     Oerfrowns the wave.     For there, with bodily anguish keen,     With Indian heats at last fordone,     With public toil and private teen,     Thou sankst, alone.     Slow to a stop, at morning grey,     I see the smoke-crownd vessel come;     Slow round her paddles dies away     The seething foam.     A boat is lowerd from her side;     Ah, gently place him on the bench!     That spirit, if all have not yet died     A 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,     Still art, to me.     The limbs their wonted tasks refuse,     The eyes are glazed, thou canst not speak;     And whiter than thy white burnous     That wasted cheek!     Enough! The boat, with quiet shock,     Unto its haven coming nigh,     Touches, and on Gibraltars rock     Lands thee, to die.     Ah me! Gibraltars strand is far,     But farther yet across the brine     Thy dear wifes ashes buried are,     Remote from thine.     For there where Mornings sacred fount     Its golden rain on earth confers,     The snowy Himalayan Mount     Oershadows hers.     Strange irony of Fate, alas,     Which for two jaded English saves,     When from their dusty life they pass,     Such peaceful graves!     In cities should we English lie,     Where cries are rising ever new,     And mens incessant stream goes by;     We who pursue     Our business with unslackening stride,     Traverse in troops, with care-filld breast,     The soft Mediterranean side,     The Nile, the East,     And see all sights from pole to pole,     And glance, and nod, and bustle by;     And never once possess our soul     Before we die.     Not by those hoary Indian hills,     Not by this gracious Midland sea     Whose floor to-night sweet moonshine fills,     Should 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,     And 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     His mortal span,     And the pure goal of Being reach;     Grey-headed, wrinkled, clad in white,     Without companion, without speech,     By day and night     Pondering Gods mysteries untold,     And tranquil as the glacier snows     He by those Indian mountains old     Might well repose!     Some grey crusading knight austere     Who bore Saint Louis company     And came home hurt to death and here     Landed to die;     Some youthful troubadour whose tongue     Filld Europe once with his love-pain,     Who here outwearied sunk, and sung     His dying strain;     Some girl who here from castle-bower,     With furtive step and cheek of flame,     Twixt myrtle-hedges all in flower     By moonlight came     To meet her pirate-lovers ship,     And from the wave-kissd marble stair     Beckond him on, with quivering lip     And unbound hair,     And lived some moons in happy trance,     Then learnt his death, and pined away     Such by these waters of romance     Twas meet to lay!     But you, a grave for knight or sage,     Romantic, solitary, still,     O spent ones of a work-day age!     Befits you ill.     So sang I; but the midnight breeze     Down to the brimmd moon-charmed main     Comes softly through the olive-trees,     And checks my strain.     I think of her, whose gentle tongue     All plaint in her own cause controlld;     Of thee I think, my brother! young     In heart, high-sould;     That comely face, that clusterd brow,     That cordial hand, that bearing free,     I see them still, I see them now,     Shall always see!     And what but gentleness untired,     And what but noble feeling warm,     Wherever shown, howeer attired,     Is grace, is charm?     What else is all these waters are,     What else is steepd in lucid sheen,     What else is bright, what else is fair,     What else serene?     Mild oer her grave, ye mountains, shine!     Gently by his, ye waters, glide!     To that in you which is divine     They were allied.