 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
186
THE HOUR OF DEATH.
When, wrapt in dreams that throng the twilight hour,
I roam alone o'er Nature's fair domain,
Mid the hushed shadows of the wildwood bower,
Or o'er the shellstrewn margin of the main,
Or upland green, or lovely lawn,
Where dewdrops kiss the breathing flowers,
And summer smiles, at rosy dawn,
Like Memory o'er unsinning hours,
I think that soon—how soon! the Night will come
When I shall leave this bright world for the tomb.
I roam alone o'er Nature's fair domain,
Mid the hushed shadows of the wildwood bower,
Or o'er the shellstrewn margin of the main,
Or upland green, or lovely lawn,
Where dewdrops kiss the breathing flowers,
And summer smiles, at rosy dawn,
Like Memory o'er unsinning hours,
I think that soon—how soon! the Night will come
When I shall leave this bright world for the tomb.
I think—and frailty dims the drooping eye—
That Spring will perfume all the inspiring air,
And Summer's smile illume earth, sea, and sky,
And Autumn, heaven's own robe of glory wear;
That silvery voices, low and sweet,
Will breathe the heart's own music forth,
And plighted youth 'trothed maidens meet,
Where now I roam o'er darkening earth;
But when all seasons with their treasures teem,
Where shall I wander? victim of a dream!
That Spring will perfume all the inspiring air,
And Summer's smile illume earth, sea, and sky,
And Autumn, heaven's own robe of glory wear;
That silvery voices, low and sweet,
Will breathe the heart's own music forth,
And plighted youth 'trothed maidens meet,
Where now I roam o'er darkening earth;
But when all seasons with their treasures teem,
Where shall I wander? victim of a dream!
Through thousand years the glorious sun shall rise,
And myriad songbirds thrilling anthems sing:
Soft shall the moonbeams fall from midnight skies,
And groves breathed music o'er the gushing spring;
But where will be the lonely one
Who swept his lyre in wayward mood,
And dreamed, sung, wept o'er charms unwon,
In holy Nature's solitude?
In what far realm of shoreless space shall roam
The soul that e'en on earth made Heaven its home?
And myriad songbirds thrilling anthems sing:
Soft shall the moonbeams fall from midnight skies,
And groves breathed music o'er the gushing spring;
But where will be the lonely one
Who swept his lyre in wayward mood,
And dreamed, sung, wept o'er charms unwon,
In holy Nature's solitude?
In what far realm of shoreless space shall roam
The soul that e'en on earth made Heaven its home?
The paths I wear, the stranger's foot will tread,
The trees I plant, will yield no fruit to me;
The flowers I cherish, bloom not for the dead;
The name I nourish—what is that to thee,
Fame! phantom of the wildered brain?
Love's tears should hallow life's last hour,
For pomp, and praise, and crowns, are vain—
Death is the spirit's only dower!
Alone, the hermit of a broken heart,
My Mind hath dwelt—even so let it depart!
The trees I plant, will yield no fruit to me;
187
The name I nourish—what is that to thee,
Fame! phantom of the wildered brain?
Love's tears should hallow life's last hour,
For pomp, and praise, and crowns, are vain—
Death is the spirit's only dower!
Alone, the hermit of a broken heart,
My Mind hath dwelt—even so let it depart!
To think—alas! to feel and know that we,
Sons of the sun, the heirs of thought and light,
Must perish sooner than the windtossed tree
Our hands have planted, and unending night
Close o'er our buried memories!
Our sphere of starry thought—our sun
Of glory quenched in morning skies,
Our sceptre broken—empire gone—
The voice, that bade creation spring to birth,
Too weak to awe the worm from human earth!
Sons of the sun, the heirs of thought and light,
Must perish sooner than the windtossed tree
Our hands have planted, and unending night
Close o'er our buried memories!
Our sphere of starry thought—our sun
Of glory quenched in morning skies,
Our sceptre broken—empire gone—
The voice, that bade creation spring to birth,
Too weak to awe the worm from human earth!
I know not where this heart will sigh its last,
I cannot tell what shaft will lay me low,
Nor, when the mortal agony hath passed,
Whither my spirit through the heavens will go.
It will not sleep, it cannot die,
It is too proud to grovel here,
For even now it mounts the sky,
And leaves behind earth's hope and fear!
O may it dwell, when cleansed from sin and blight,
Shrined in God's temple of eternal light!
I cannot tell what shaft will lay me low,
Nor, when the mortal agony hath passed,
Whither my spirit through the heavens will go.
It will not sleep, it cannot die,
It is too proud to grovel here,
For even now it mounts the sky,
And leaves behind earth's hope and fear!
O may it dwell, when cleansed from sin and blight,
Shrined in God's temple of eternal light!
Where'er the spirit roams, howe'er it lives,
I cannot doubt it sometimes looks below,
And from the scenes of mortal love derives
Much to enhance its rapture or its woe;
And when I muse on death and gloom,
And all that saints or sages tell,
I pause not at the midnight tomb,
Nor listen to the funeral knell,
But think how dear the scenes I loved will be
When I gaze on them from eternity!
I cannot doubt it sometimes looks below,
And from the scenes of mortal love derives
Much to enhance its rapture or its woe;
And when I muse on death and gloom,
And all that saints or sages tell,
I pause not at the midnight tomb,
Nor listen to the funeral knell,
But think how dear the scenes I loved will be
When I gaze on them from eternity!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |