Calm on the bosom of thy God,Fair spirit, rest thee now!
I have looked on the hills of the stormy North,And the larch has hung his tassels forth.
Alas for love, if thou wert all,And naught beyond, O Earth!
The boy stood on the burning deck,Whence all but him had fled;The flame that lit the battle's wreckShone round him o'er the dead.
The flames roll'd on-he would not goWithout his father's word;That father, faint in death below,His voice no longer heard.
Oh, call my brother back to me!I cannot play alone:The summer comes with flower and bee,—Where is my brother gone?
Leaves have their time to fall,And flowers to wither at the north-wind’s breath,And stars to set; but all,Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!