DR. A. N. SOMERVILLE,
I LITTLE thought, else keen had been my pain,
Those brilliant eyes should beam on me no more;
That scarcely fifteen moons should wax and wane,
Ere death had sealed them by blue Leman's shore.
Dear MATAMOROS! no friend have I known
Of soul less soiled with earthliness than thine;
In chains and exile, brave thy Lord to own,
The victor's wreaths thy martyr temples twine.
Loving and lovely, gentle, guileless, pure,
All base alloy thy lofty bosom spurned:
To lead thy bleeding Spain to Christ for cure,
With life-consuming fire that bosom burned.
I loved thee, as did those of many a clime—
Thy glorious race on earth seemed but begun.
The Lord "does all things well." In golden prime
Thou servest now, where shines no setting sun.
And BRIDEL'S voice by Leman's lake is dumb;
Its silvery tones on earth are hushed for aye:
The Great Belov'd has to His garden come,
And, stooping, caught the lilies quick away.