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ONEwrites, 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 make
My own less bitter, rather more:
Too common! Never morning wore
To evening but some heart did break.
O father, whereso’er thou be,
Who pledgest now thy gallant son:
A shot, ere half thy draught be done,
Hath still’d the life that beat from thee.
O mother, praying God will save
Thy sailor, —while thy head is bow’d
His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud
Drops in his vast and wandering grave.
Ye know no more than I who wrought
At 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 way
With 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 glows
In 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 color burns;
And, having left the glass, she turns
Once more to set a ringlet right;
And even when she turn’d the curse
Had fallen, and her future Lord
Was 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.
— ALFRED TENNYSON