I.—Eily.
When the stars sing lullabies,
Eily may lie down to rest :
Not more innocent the skies,
Than the heart within her breast.
Balmy breeze and dropping dew
Are not fresher than is she ;
All the earth, and heaven too,
Are not dearer unto me.
Slumber is death’s counterfeit :
When the spell is o’er her laid,
Looks she so divinely sweet,
That of death I am afraid.
If she dies, I’ll bury her
Where the whitest blossoms grow ;
Or, perchance, she would prefer
For her grave, a mound of snow.
Waiting for a solemn hush,
Bursting into sudden song,
I will tame the sweetest thrush
Singing for her, loud and long.
But the bird will only sing
Over a deserted mound,
And my flowers I shall fling
Only on an empty ground.
For my Eily will have flown
To the land I cannot see,
And the heart that is mine own
Will be beating there for me.
If she dies a dull despair.
Will eclipse the green and blue ;
But for me, I shall not care—
If she dies, I shall die too !