The Rhode Island Republican

POETRY.

The second act shows us Frankfort, who had just returned from sea, during the prevalence of the Plague, at the door of his mother's house looking in agony upon its back windows, now gleaming in the silent moon; afraid to enter, and watching for the least sign of life or motion in that beloved dwelling. A pious priest at last comes out, and tells him that his mother and little brother had both died that very morning. After some burst of eloquent sorrow, the poor youth enquires how they died; and the priest answers:

"Last night I sat with her
And talk'd of thee—two tranquil hours we talk'd
Of thee, and none beside, while little William
Sat in sweet and timid silent way
Upon his stool beside his mother's knees,
And, sometimes looking upwards to her face,
Seem'd listening of his Brother far at sea.
This morning early I look'd in upon them
Almost by chance. — There little William lay
With his bright hair and rosy countenance
Dead! tho' at first I tho't he only slept.
"You think," his mother said, "that William sleeps
But he is dead! He sicken'd during the night,
"And while I pray'd, he drew a long deep sigh
"And breathed no more!"

I found that she had laid upon the bed
Many of those little presents you bro't her
From your first voyage to the Indies—Shells,
With a sad lustre brightened o'er the whiteness
Of these her funeral sheets: and gorgeous feathers,
With which, few hours before, her child was playing.
And lisping all the while his brother's name,
Form'd sad contrast with the pale, sweet face
Lying so still beneath its auburn hair.
Two letters still are in her closed hand
And will be buried with her. One was written
By your Captain, after the great victory
Over De Ruyter, and with loftiest praise
Of her son's consummate skill and gallantry.
The other, now almost effaced with tears,
Was from yourself, the last she had from you
And spoke of your return. God bless thee, boy
I am too old to weep'—but such return
Wrings out the tears from my old wither'd heart.

Frankfort. O'tis the curse of absence that our love
Becomes too sad—too tender—too profound
Towards all our afar off friends. Home we return
And find them dead for whom we oft have wept,
Needlessly wept, when they were in their joy!
Then goes the broken-hearted mariner
Back to the sea that welters drearily
Around the homeless earth!"