 | Prose sketches and poems |  |
LINES
Written on the Mountains west of the del Norte, April 10, 1832.[1]
The sun's last light is in the sky,
Yet still his breath is on my brow;
And, warm as in death's mockery,
I feel it going past me now.
His dying breath still quivers up
Above the mountains' many crests,
Like ruddy wine within a cup,
That never from its motion rests.
The mountains in the south grow blue
And indistinct, like waning day;
And in the east, their snowy hue
Is changing into sullen gray:
All objects, while the shadows play,
Grow dim and indistinctly deep;
For Nature's eye is closed, and she inclines to sleep.
And sad, slow thoughts come on the heart,
Like bees that swarm, one with another,
Or waves that with incessant start
Chase, and destroy, each one its brother.
Yet still his breath is on my brow;
And, warm as in death's mockery,
I feel it going past me now.
His dying breath still quivers up
Above the mountains' many crests,
Like ruddy wine within a cup,
That never from its motion rests.
The mountains in the south grow blue
And indistinct, like waning day;
And in the east, their snowy hue
Is changing into sullen gray:
All objects, while the shadows play,
Grow dim and indistinctly deep;
For Nature's eye is closed, and she inclines to sleep.
And sad, slow thoughts come on the heart,
Like bees that swarm, one with another,
Or waves that with incessant start
Chase, and destroy, each one its brother.
89
The dreams of hope, that daylight nursed,
Like other flowers beneath the sun,
Have fled like images accursed,
Or vanish slowly one by one;
And all the thoughts of wo, that rested
Like fiends asleep, within the breast,
Are now with wakefulness invested,
And wander in their wild unrest
Throughout the heart, which is their nest,
And worse than this, the wasting food
Of these, the vulture-eyed, and all their ravening brood.
The thought of home is ever there,
Like a sad bird with fixed eye
That never shuts, but on the air
Gazeth with deep intensity;
And when the hand of Death may seem
Upon the universe around,
As at this hour of coming dream,
When hushed is all the day's light sound;
When pine, and snow, and rock, and heaven,
Are shadowed by sleep's waving wing—
Sleep, so like death, that in the even
They seem the self-same sombre thing;
When all is thus, it can but bring
That lone-eyed thought to me again,
And on the heart it falls like a cold winter rain.
Perhaps the wing of death is there,
Fanning some soul which I have loved
Into the cold and desert air,
A sad thing from its home removed;
Perhaps they weep for one that's dead,
And think of me the absent, too,
While I have not a tear-drop shed,
As they, the sad, forsaken do;
And so, perhaps, when I return,
'Stead of the loved one's voice and eye,
I may but find the marble urn,
Death's sad and freezing mockery;
And so one other wound will be,
Upon the seared and shattered heart,
Which sorrow loves so well, it doth not thence depart.
'T is terrible to be alone
In the wide world, a homeless thing,
Like a last wave that makes its moan,
And rolleth to the land, to fling
Itself away upon the shore,
With nothing near to mourn its death;
But, like the eagle, far to soar,
Like other flowers beneath the sun,
Have fled like images accursed,
Or vanish slowly one by one;
And all the thoughts of wo, that rested
Like fiends asleep, within the breast,
Are now with wakefulness invested,
And wander in their wild unrest
Throughout the heart, which is their nest,
And worse than this, the wasting food
Of these, the vulture-eyed, and all their ravening brood.
The thought of home is ever there,
Like a sad bird with fixed eye
That never shuts, but on the air
Gazeth with deep intensity;
And when the hand of Death may seem
Upon the universe around,
As at this hour of coming dream,
When hushed is all the day's light sound;
When pine, and snow, and rock, and heaven,
Are shadowed by sleep's waving wing—
Sleep, so like death, that in the even
They seem the self-same sombre thing;
When all is thus, it can but bring
That lone-eyed thought to me again,
And on the heart it falls like a cold winter rain.
Perhaps the wing of death is there,
Fanning some soul which I have loved
Into the cold and desert air,
A sad thing from its home removed;
Perhaps they weep for one that's dead,
And think of me the absent, too,
While I have not a tear-drop shed,
As they, the sad, forsaken do;
And so, perhaps, when I return,
'Stead of the loved one's voice and eye,
I may but find the marble urn,
Death's sad and freezing mockery;
And so one other wound will be,
Upon the seared and shattered heart,
Which sorrow loves so well, it doth not thence depart.
'T is terrible to be alone
In the wide world, a homeless thing,
Like a last wave that makes its moan,
And rolleth to the land, to fling
Itself away upon the shore,
With nothing near to mourn its death;
But, like the eagle, far to soar,
90
While Death his full nest shattereth,
Then to return, and see it float
Away amid the torrent's white,
Perhaps to hear his young's last note,
To see his mate's last look of light;
Oh! this is wo's most wretched sight!
This is the last, the dying pang—
The breaking of the heart which long hath borne the fang.
This must I bear as I have borne
A hundred other woes beside;
And when the last lone hope is shorn,
That glimmering light, which, scarce descried,
Hath been my beacon-star of late,
Then I have done with all of life,
And nought remains to me of fate,
Save death to end the weary strife:
Yet still the branchless tree lives on—
The mastless ship still wends her way,
Nor mindeth wind, nor storm, nor sun;
So I, perhaps, may live my day,
Blind, blind of heart, as best I may,
And some, perhaps, may mourn my death,
When neither envy's fang nor hatred hindereth.
Then to return, and see it float
Away amid the torrent's white,
Perhaps to hear his young's last note,
To see his mate's last look of light;
Oh! this is wo's most wretched sight!
This is the last, the dying pang—
The breaking of the heart which long hath borne the fang.
This must I bear as I have borne
A hundred other woes beside;
And when the last lone hope is shorn,
That glimmering light, which, scarce descried,
Hath been my beacon-star of late,
Then I have done with all of life,
And nought remains to me of fate,
Save death to end the weary strife:
Yet still the branchless tree lives on—
The mastless ship still wends her way,
Nor mindeth wind, nor storm, nor sun;
So I, perhaps, may live my day,
Blind, blind of heart, as best I may,
And some, perhaps, may mourn my death,
When neither envy's fang nor hatred hindereth.
| Prose sketches and poems | |