Spring across the fields will be returning
With her silver nightingales, ere long—­
Through the dusky nights of silence piercing
E’en thy grave with her inspiring song,
And the lindens whispering, will murmur—­
Breathless die away, and sighing cease,
But thou—­slumber soft my heart’s beloved,
Death alone can bring eternal peace!

NADSON.

AT THE GRAVE OF N.M.D.

Forsaken am I now anew,
Night’s sombre wings o’er me descending,
As tearless, meditating, dumb—­
Above thy grave’s low mound I’m bending. 
Naught offers recompense for thee,
No hopes console or fears betray—­
For whom now live I in this world? 
For whom on earth now shall I pray?

NADSON.

IN DREAMS

In my dreams I saw heavens bespangled,
  With silvery stars all adorned,
And pale green sorrowing willows
  Drooping low o’er the pale blue pond. 
I saw in syringa embowered
  A cottage, and thou my heart’s Dove—­
And bowed was thy little curly head,
  My beautiful sad pale Love!

Thou wert weeping, the teardrops shining
  Were flowing from thy yearning gaze,
For love the roses wept also,
  For joy sobbed the nightingale. 
And every tear found consoling—­
  A greeting from near and from far,
The garden was lit by a glow worm,
  Enraptured the heavens a star!

NADSON.

THE OLD GREY HOUSE

Thou hospitable old grey house,—­A greeting unto thee! 
  With thy red ochre roofs,—­vine trellised o’er;
The gardens fair laid forth in blooming luxury,
The fields in glinting beads of dew stretched endlessly,
  Beneath the sun’s fresh kiss a gilded floor!

A silvery ribbon through the flowering green—­
  The icy billows of the river foam,
Above her clay-white strand are verdant arbours seen,
Spun o’er with leafage, through the waking land between,
  And where the azure river’s currents roam.

Prattling, the river lisps of love and of repose—­
  And in the distance shimmers, faintly dies;
A flower, secret listening as its message flows,
A roguish kiss of gratitude in fragrance blows,
  While beckoning stars smile from the silent skies.

I greet thee, home and mother!  Joys now charm anew
  That I believed but once to me were given;
Thee I forsook,—­and now my last expiring view
Turns back from fruitless conflict to thy vision true,
  Love, no more mine, nor hope nor peace of heaven!

Mother and home, I greet thee!  O caress thy child
  Whom weariness, regret, despair assail—­
With sighing of thy groves in the soft wind beguiled,
With sunbeams of thy Springtime smiling fair and mild,
  And with the liquid song of nightingales!