[Poems by Pinkney in] The life and works of Edward Coote Pinkney a memoir and complete text of his poems and literary prose, including much never before published |
 |
THE IMMORTAL
|
|
| 1. |
| 2. |
| 3. |
| 4. |
| 5. |
| 6. |
| 7. |
| 8. |
 | [Poems by Pinkney in] The life and works of Edward Coote Pinkney |  |
THE IMMORTAL
I
It is the time of which we doubt
If it be day or night;
For though the eastern stars shine out
With clear and tender light;
The skirts of the departing day
Yet brightly in the west delay,
And emblem with the air and wave,
The cheerful deathbed of the brave.
The moon grows plainer in the sky,
And seems approaching to my eye.
The trees begin to cast afar
Faint shadows from the evening-star—
That star more worth than all the rest,
The fairest earliest and best,
Whose pale, and pure, and pensive light,
Falls like a blessing on the sight—
That dewy mournful lovely one,
Which seems the widow of the sun,
And, hating to survive its mate,
Denies to shine too long or late—
That planet with the glowing grace
Of feverish beauty on its face,
Which sadly beautiful appears
As vivid eyes half quenched in tears.
If it be day or night;
181
With clear and tender light;
The skirts of the departing day
Yet brightly in the west delay,
And emblem with the air and wave,
The cheerful deathbed of the brave.
The moon grows plainer in the sky,
And seems approaching to my eye.
The trees begin to cast afar
Faint shadows from the evening-star—
That star more worth than all the rest,
The fairest earliest and best,
Whose pale, and pure, and pensive light,
Falls like a blessing on the sight—
That dewy mournful lovely one,
Which seems the widow of the sun,
And, hating to survive its mate,
Denies to shine too long or late—
That planet with the glowing grace
Of feverish beauty on its face,
Which sadly beautiful appears
As vivid eyes half quenched in tears.
I sought the old secluded hall,
Where I had left my child:
The roof was bending to its fall,
Its look was strange and wild.
The front presented to my view,
Mosses and stains of every hue;
Part of the building, overthrown,
Was but a shapeless pile of stone.
Where I had left my child:
182
Its look was strange and wild.
The front presented to my view,
Mosses and stains of every hue;
Part of the building, overthrown,
Was but a shapeless pile of stone.
Rank weeds, in unimpeded sport,
O'er-ran the solitary court;
The dial in the midst, was hid
By coarse and noxious flowers,—
And this was well, for what had I
To do with sunny hours!
As I moved up the pathway wide,
A viper glided by my side
Athwart the ruined portal spread
The fearless spider's snare—
The loathsome insect felt secure
That none would enter there.
O'er-ran the solitary court;
The dial in the midst, was hid
By coarse and noxious flowers,—
And this was well, for what had I
To do with sunny hours!
As I moved up the pathway wide,
A viper glided by my side
Athwart the ruined portal spread
The fearless spider's snare—
The loathsome insect felt secure
That none would enter there.
The tattered arras loosely shook
Its colourless remains,
As gusts of melancholy winds
Sighed through the broken panes,
Which once my ancient scutcheon bore—
But which now strewed the rotting floor.
My father's picture on the hearth
Lay low and dim with dust—
The hooks by which it hung on high,
Had yielded unto rust.
The handless clock had ceased to chime,
As conscious I cared not for time.
Its colourless remains,
As gusts of melancholy winds
Sighed through the broken panes,
Which once my ancient scutcheon bore—
183
My father's picture on the hearth
Lay low and dim with dust—
The hooks by which it hung on high,
Had yielded unto rust.
The handless clock had ceased to chime,
As conscious I cared not for time.
All was confusion, disarray,
Neglect, gloom, silence, and decay.
Neglect, gloom, silence, and decay.
| [Poems by Pinkney in] The life and works of Edward Coote Pinkney | |