 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
200
2. PART II.
Woe to the heart where passion pours its tide!
Soon sinks the flood to leave the desert there.
Croly.
Soon sinks the flood to leave the desert there.
Croly.
The sobbings of the midnight sea,
The moan of winds through vaults of death,
The wail that warns events to be,
The awful voice that has no breath—
Such sounds come o'er the quailing bosom
When other years recur, and bring
The incense of each faded blossom
That wreathed the glowing brow of spring;
Such sounds come o'er us when we turn
To sunnier spots and happier hours,
And brightly buried feelings burn
Amid young Love's deserted bowers.
The moan of winds through vaults of death,
The wail that warns events to be,
The awful voice that has no breath—
Such sounds come o'er the quailing bosom
When other years recur, and bring
The incense of each faded blossom
That wreathed the glowing brow of spring;
Such sounds come o'er us when we turn
To sunnier spots and happier hours,
And brightly buried feelings burn
Amid young Love's deserted bowers.
Between the hearts, whose feelings rise,
Like incense from an angel's shrine,
Before the throne of paradise,
Meet offering to the Power Divine,
There lies a gulf of boundless gloom,
Which none may pass till Fate decrees,
Till death unlocks the hollow tomb,
Revealing awful mysteries!
Doomed at their birth, in other spheres,
To sigh o'er pictures of the mind,
Through all the woes of lingering years,
That leave a burning waste behind,
Our tortured hearts too quickly feel,
Too deeply for this mortal lot,
Too lastingly for human weal—
All unforgetting—unforgot!
Like incense from an angel's shrine,
Before the throne of paradise,
Meet offering to the Power Divine,
There lies a gulf of boundless gloom,
Which none may pass till Fate decrees,
Till death unlocks the hollow tomb,
Revealing awful mysteries!
Doomed at their birth, in other spheres,
To sigh o'er pictures of the mind,
Through all the woes of lingering years,
That leave a burning waste behind,
Our tortured hearts too quickly feel,
Too deeply for this mortal lot,
Too lastingly for human weal—
All unforgetting—unforgot!
Time speedeth on with hurried pace,
And love and joy are left behind—
But where will close the doubtful race
Ne'er cometh into human mind.
We all must die—'t is all we know;
We all must go—we know not where;
Perchance, to skies that ever glow,
Perchance, to realms of quick despair!
It may be so—it may be not—
Doubt circles all and all must die,
Loved, hated, scorned, avenged, forgot—
Oh! what art thou, Eternity?
And love and joy are left behind—
But where will close the doubtful race
Ne'er cometh into human mind.
201
We all must go—we know not where;
Perchance, to skies that ever glow,
Perchance, to realms of quick despair!
It may be so—it may be not—
Doubt circles all and all must die,
Loved, hated, scorned, avenged, forgot—
Oh! what art thou, Eternity?
Our lot is low—our pride is high—
We are not what our minds create;
The elements of earth and sky
Are mingled in our web of fate.
Like sunbows thrown o'er torrents, come
Wild thoughts o'er hearts that bleed to death—
Thoughts whose wild light illumes the tomb,
When the blue sky resumes our breath.
Oh! while our burning spirits soar,
Woe binds us to our weary clay,
Till all things fade, and pain is o'er,
And forth we pass—away—away!
We are not what our minds create;
The elements of earth and sky
Are mingled in our web of fate.
Like sunbows thrown o'er torrents, come
Wild thoughts o'er hearts that bleed to death—
Thoughts whose wild light illumes the tomb,
When the blue sky resumes our breath.
Oh! while our burning spirits soar,
Woe binds us to our weary clay,
Till all things fade, and pain is o'er,
And forth we pass—away—away!
How thou hast felt through seasons gone,
My own despairing heart would tell,
In the low, deep, unearthly moan,
That oft hath bade thee, Love, farewell!
But I, perchance, may throw the hues
Of my own feelings over thee,
Like shadows cast o'er moonlight dews,
Or dark clouds o'er the gleaming sea;
And yet for all my heart hath known
Of anguish in the days gone by,
Thou mayst be blest as flowers just blown
Beneath the spring's transparent sky;
And few the thoughts and faint the prayers
That yet have followed me along
A path beset with many cares—
The heritage of sons of song!
My own despairing heart would tell,
In the low, deep, unearthly moan,
That oft hath bade thee, Love, farewell!
But I, perchance, may throw the hues
Of my own feelings over thee,
Like shadows cast o'er moonlight dews,
Or dark clouds o'er the gleaming sea;
And yet for all my heart hath known
Of anguish in the days gone by,
Thou mayst be blest as flowers just blown
Beneath the spring's transparent sky;
And few the thoughts and faint the prayers
That yet have followed me along
A path beset with many cares—
The heritage of sons of song!
202
I will not wrong thee, gentle one!
Thy heart hath heard the voice of woe,
And I should rue unkindness done
To part aggrieved, and leave thee so;
For thou hast rendered unto me
Such solace in my wildest mood,
That thou art now my destiny—
The charm of my lone solitude!
Thine eye is bright as flowers that blow
Upon the holy Hydrasil,
And beauty beams upon thy brow
Like Odin's throne on Asgard Hill;
And life and love around thee bloom
Like Heimdaller's gorgeous bow,
That guides the wanderer, through the tomb,
To realms beyond all earthly woe.
Thy heart hath heard the voice of woe,
And I should rue unkindness done
To part aggrieved, and leave thee so;
For thou hast rendered unto me
Such solace in my wildest mood,
That thou art now my destiny—
The charm of my lone solitude!
Thine eye is bright as flowers that blow
Upon the holy Hydrasil,
And beauty beams upon thy brow
Like Odin's throne on Asgard Hill;
And life and love around thee bloom
Like Heimdaller's gorgeous bow,
That guides the wanderer, through the tomb,
To realms beyond all earthly woe.
But worse than vain my love for thee,
Beautiful Spirit, fancy-free!
And I must quench the light that threw
Its radiance o'er my morning skies,
And dwell no longer in the view
Of my forbidden paradise;
For what thou wert thou art not now,
And I am changed in heart and mind,—
And—thus I break my plighted vow—
And pass away like autumn's wind.
Beautiful Spirit, fancy-free!
And I must quench the light that threw
Its radiance o'er my morning skies,
And dwell no longer in the view
Of my forbidden paradise;
For what thou wert thou art not now,
And I am changed in heart and mind,—
And—thus I break my plighted vow—
And pass away like autumn's wind.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |