 | The collected poems of William Ellery Channing the younger, 1817-1901 |  |
1012
WELCOME TO THEE NOT GONE
(A TRIBUTE TO MARSTON WATSON, WRITTEN IN 1899)
Friend of my early years! friend of my hours
Fast fading from these shores, from Time's dim bowers!
The same to-day,—e'er living in my mind,—
Sweet, thoughtful, tender, patient to thy kind—
Marston, I would not weep that thou art gone,
Leaving me hapless on these shores alone;
Dear Heart, I will not grieve, since God allowed
So vast a tribute and a soul so proud;
Since thou wert sent to teach me to forget,
By these low shores where my poor voyage was set,
These steep obliquities that shade my path,
While thy far-reaching view o'ergoes their wrath.
Fast fading from these shores, from Time's dim bowers!
The same to-day,—e'er living in my mind,—
Sweet, thoughtful, tender, patient to thy kind—
Marston, I would not weep that thou art gone,
Leaving me hapless on these shores alone;
Dear Heart, I will not grieve, since God allowed
So vast a tribute and a soul so proud;
Since thou wert sent to teach me to forget,
By these low shores where my poor voyage was set,
These steep obliquities that shade my path,
While thy far-reaching view o'ergoes their wrath.
Marston! I see thee still—that far-off look
Away, across the skies, the ever-rolling brook,
Or that dark, troubled Sea among the isles;
The breeze blows up; the flowers, the heavens, all smiles.
Smiling we take our way across the tombs,
Stand on the hilltop, hear the rushing looms
In the long valley nestling at our feet;
Scan the vast basin where the heavens meet
Their own blue pageant, sent from skies to greet;
Marston delights in all—or sandy reach,
Or sparkling billows on the Gurnet beach;
The poorest weed, the smallest fly that waves,
To him the same as the great Heroes' graves.
Away, across the skies, the ever-rolling brook,
Or that dark, troubled Sea among the isles;
The breeze blows up; the flowers, the heavens, all smiles.
Smiling we take our way across the tombs,
Stand on the hilltop, hear the rushing looms
1013
Scan the vast basin where the heavens meet
Their own blue pageant, sent from skies to greet;
Marston delights in all—or sandy reach,
Or sparkling billows on the Gurnet beach;
The poorest weed, the smallest fly that waves,
To him the same as the great Heroes' graves.
“I am not gone; I live—I'm with thee still!
I stand off-looking from the windy hill
With thee; 't is just the same; weep not for me!
I murmur in the breeze, I sail upon the sea;
I see with far-off look the westering sun
Play o'er the oak-groves when the day is done.
No, not a tear! let us be cheerful now!
I am not dead—why, what a thought! my vow
Was always sped to life; in Death's lone camp
I do not walk alone; I have my lamp,
My steadfast light, burning from ancient shades,
Eternal remnants from prophetic glades.
I stand off-looking from the windy hill
With thee; 't is just the same; weep not for me!
I murmur in the breeze, I sail upon the sea;
I see with far-off look the westering sun
Play o'er the oak-groves when the day is done.
No, not a tear! let us be cheerful now!
I am not dead—why, what a thought! my vow
Was always sped to life; in Death's lone camp
I do not walk alone; I have my lamp,
My steadfast light, burning from ancient shades,
Eternal remnants from prophetic glades.
“The breezes fan my cheek; I am not dead;
My soul has only waved its wings and fled
From these low-hanging equinoctial storms;
Hail, Heaven and life! hail, gods and sempiternal forms!”
My soul has only waved its wings and fled
From these low-hanging equinoctial storms;
Hail, Heaven and life! hail, gods and sempiternal forms!”
| The collected poems of William Ellery Channing the younger, 1817-1901 | |