 | Poems and prose writings |  |
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THE DYING RAVEN.
Come to these lonely woods to die alone?
It seems not many days since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,
Calling upon thy mates — and their clear answers.
The earth was brown then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us, — offspring bright
Of earth, — a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all. — Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it, — vanity well feigned —
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces. — Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms. — There, on high, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
It seems not many days since thou wast heard,
From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note,
Calling upon thy mates — and their clear answers.
The earth was brown then; and the infant leaves
Had not put forth to warm them in the sun,
Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice,
Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone,
And prophesying life to the sealed ground,
Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties.
And now they're all around us, — offspring bright
Of earth, — a mother, who, with constant care,
Doth feed and clothe them all. — Now o'er her fields,
In blessed bands, or single, they are gone,
Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream;
Or peering o'er it, — vanity well feigned —
In quaint approval seem to glow and nod
At their reflected graces. — Morn to meet,
They in fantastic labors pass the night,
Catching its dews, and rounding silvery drops
To deck their bosoms. — There, on high, bald trees,
From varnished cells some peep, and the old boughs
Make to rejoice and dance in warmer winds.
Over my head the winds and they make music;
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And grateful, in return for what they take,
Bright hues and odours to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight —
Brings beauty, life; — for love is life — hate, death.
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation!
Thou who abod'st with us the winter long,
Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,
From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow —
Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, 'mid thaw and steam, cam'st forth
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,
To speak of comfort unto lonely man —
Didst say to him, — though seemingly alone
'Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground — it was not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair; —
That Thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.
More Thou saidst,
Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of Faith, (than instinct no less sure,)
Of Spirits near him, though he saw them not:
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,
Bright hues and odours to the air they give.
Thus mutual love brings mutual delight —
Brings beauty, life; — for love is life — hate, death.
Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation!
Thou who abod'st with us the winter long,
Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft,
From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow —
Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days
Shone on the earth, 'mid thaw and steam, cam'st forth
From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell,
To speak of comfort unto lonely man —
Didst say to him, — though seemingly alone
'Mid wastes and snows, and silent, lifeless trees,
Or the more silent ground — it was not death,
But nature's sleep and rest, her kind repair; —
That Thou, albeit unseen, didst bear with him
The winter's night, and, patient of the day,
And cheered by hope, (instinct divine in Thee,)
Waitedst return of summer.
More Thou saidst,
Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man!
Thou spok'st of Faith, (than instinct no less sure,)
Of Spirits near him, though he saw them not:
Thou bad'st him ope his intellectual eye,
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And see his solitude all populous:
Thou showd'st him Paradise, and deathless flowers;
And didst him pray to listen to the flow
Of living waters.
Preacher to man's spirit!
Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!
Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'T was thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong,
On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!
Thy kingly strength, thou Conqueror of storms,
Thus low brought down.
The year's mild, cheering dawn
Shone out on thee, a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest among thy hopes and promises —
Beautiful flowers, and freshly springing blades,
Gasping thy life out. — Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds —
To ease thy pain, the one — to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. They give no answer back.
As I look up to their bright angel faces,
Thou showd'st him Paradise, and deathless flowers;
And didst him pray to listen to the flow
Of living waters.
Preacher to man's spirit!
Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter!
Thou faithful one! is this thine end? 'T was thou,
When summer birds were gone, and no form seen
In the void air, who cam'st, living and strong,
On thy broad, balanced pennons, through the winds.
And of thy long enduring, this the close!
Thy kingly strength, thou Conqueror of storms,
Thus low brought down.
The year's mild, cheering dawn
Shone out on thee, a momentary light.
The gales of spring upbore thee for a day,
And then forsook thee. Thou art fallen now;
And liest among thy hopes and promises —
Beautiful flowers, and freshly springing blades,
Gasping thy life out. — Here for thee the grass
Tenderly makes a bed; and the young buds
In silence open their fair, painted folds —
To ease thy pain, the one — to cheer thee, these.
But thou art restless; and thy once keen eye
Is dull and sightless now. New blooming boughs,
Needlessly kind, have spread a tent for thee.
Thy mate is calling to the white, piled clouds,
And asks for thee. They give no answer back.
As I look up to their bright angel faces,
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Intelligent and capable of voice
They seem to me. Their silence to my soul
Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird,
Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound,
No silence. — Near thee stands the shadow, Death; —
And now he slowly draws his sable veil
Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call
Thou'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,
Wilt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws
Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death
Are on thee.
Laid thus low by age? Or is't
All-grudging man has brought thee to this end?
Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound
Around the grain God gives thee for thy food,
Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain.
I needs must mourn for thee. For I, who have
No fields, nor gather into garners — I
Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.
And now, farewell! The falling leaves ere long
Will give thee decent covering. Till then,
Thine own black plumage, that will now no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes,
Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine,
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon
They seem to me. Their silence to my soul
Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird,
Silence or sound. For thee there is no sound,
No silence. — Near thee stands the shadow, Death; —
And now he slowly draws his sable veil
Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls
Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call
Thou'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds,
With beating wing, or steady poise aslant,
Wilt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws
Droop thy wings' parting feathers. Spasms of death
Are on thee.
Laid thus low by age? Or is't
All-grudging man has brought thee to this end?
Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound
Around the grain God gives thee for thy food,
Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain.
I needs must mourn for thee. For I, who have
No fields, nor gather into garners — I
Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate.
And now, farewell! The falling leaves ere long
Will give thee decent covering. Till then,
Thine own black plumage, that will now no more
Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes,
Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine,
Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon
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As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade
In living man.
Who scoffs these sympathies,
Makes mock of the divinity within;
Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul
The universal spirit. — Hear it cry,
“How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!
How deaden thee to universal love,
And joy of kindred with all humble things, —
God's creatures all!”
And surely it is so.
He who the lily clothes in simple glory,
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,
In signs mysterious, written what alone
Our hearts may read. — Death bring thee rest, poor Bird.
In living man.
Who scoffs these sympathies,
Makes mock of the divinity within;
Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul
The universal spirit. — Hear it cry,
“How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man!
How deaden thee to universal love,
And joy of kindred with all humble things, —
God's creatures all!”
And surely it is so.
He who the lily clothes in simple glory,
He who doth hear the ravens cry for food,
Hath on our hearts, with hand invisible,
In signs mysterious, written what alone
Our hearts may read. — Death bring thee rest, poor Bird.
| Poems and prose writings | |