 | The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury |  |
264
LINES ON THE DEATH OF A YOUNG ARTIST.
How shall we mourn thee, gifted one? how wail
The fate that snatched thee thus in youth away,
Ere in life's wreath one rose-bud had grown pale,
Ere one dark cloud had dimmed thine early day?
How speak the sorrow that our bosoms thrilled,
When death the pulses of thy warm heart stilled?
The fate that snatched thee thus in youth away,
Ere in life's wreath one rose-bud had grown pale,
Ere one dark cloud had dimmed thine early day?
How speak the sorrow that our bosoms thrilled,
When death the pulses of thy warm heart stilled?
How shall we mourn thee? Thou wert of the few
Who walk the earth in majesty of mind;
Genius had given its treasures to thy view—
The painter's eye, the poet's thought combined,
The soul to image all things pure and bright,
The skill to give them to our daily sight.
Who walk the earth in majesty of mind;
Genius had given its treasures to thy view—
The painter's eye, the poet's thought combined,
The soul to image all things pure and bright,
The skill to give them to our daily sight.
Alas! that hand its cunning has forgot,
That eye is closed upon all earthly things;
On thy dull ear the voice of praise falls not,
Thy heart is cold to love's soft whisperings.
Called from life's feast too soon, thou hast but quaffed
Of love, joy, fame, one deep and final draught.
That eye is closed upon all earthly things;
On thy dull ear the voice of praise falls not,
Thy heart is cold to love's soft whisperings.
Called from life's feast too soon, thou hast but quaffed
Of love, joy, fame, one deep and final draught.
Like the Olympian victor, thou hadst won
The goal of all thy hopes; and in the hour
When toil was past and glory had begun,
Then came the King of Terrors in his power,
And at his touch thou didst in dust lay down
The youthful head girt with its laurel crown.
The goal of all thy hopes; and in the hour
When toil was past and glory had begun,
Then came the King of Terrors in his power,
And at his touch thou didst in dust lay down
The youthful head girt with its laurel crown.
265
All earthly gifts were thine save length of days;
And dare we ask why God denied thee this?
Haply the grave that shuts thee from our gaze,
Closing upon thee in thine hour of bliss,
Was meant to save thee all the varied woe
That waits the weary wayfarer below.
And dare we ask why God denied thee this?
Haply the grave that shuts thee from our gaze,
Closing upon thee in thine hour of bliss,
Was meant to save thee all the varied woe
That waits the weary wayfarer below.
“Thy sun went down at noon,” but not in clouds;
And while we watch in tears its swift decline,
We know that though death's awful shadow shrouds
Its brightness now, yet it shall once more shine
Among the host of heaven; and we, who bear
Life's lessons in our hearts, may hope to greet thee there.
And while we watch in tears its swift decline,
We know that though death's awful shadow shrouds
Its brightness now, yet it shall once more shine
Among the host of heaven; and we, who bear
Life's lessons in our hearts, may hope to greet thee there.
| The poems of Mrs. Emma Catherine Embury | |