The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield In two volumes |
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THE LAY OF THE LOST. |
 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
273
THE LAY OF THE LOST.
When through the dimness of the lonely night
Silence leans listening from the pale blue sky,
Amid the mysteries of the shadowy light
Of cypress groves that in the low winds sigh,
The shade of Death comes o'er my heart,
Like a dim dream of summer even,
And then I feel I could depart,
Like a sunbright cloud from the brow of heaven!
Without a sigh, without a fear,
Without a last lamenting tear,
A doubt to dim my spirit's bloom,
Or one lone shadow from the night of doom!
Silence leans listening from the pale blue sky,
Amid the mysteries of the shadowy light
Of cypress groves that in the low winds sigh,
The shade of Death comes o'er my heart,
Like a dim dream of summer even,
And then I feel I could depart,
Like a sunbright cloud from the brow of heaven!
Without a sigh, without a fear,
Without a last lamenting tear,
A doubt to dim my spirit's bloom,
Or one lone shadow from the night of doom!
Then Memory lingers o'er departed hours,
When Love, unstained by human passion, came,
Like starlight stealing through Arabian bowers,
The Spirit-Herald of a deathless fame!
But those are hours of sadness now,
Of vain repining and regret,
For Hope's fair sun hath left my brow—
The darkened light of love hath set!
Sweet Mary! like a tender dream,
A shadow on the rippling stream,
Thou liv'st alone in my clouded brain,
The vision of blest days that cannot dawn again!
When Love, unstained by human passion, came,
Like starlight stealing through Arabian bowers,
The Spirit-Herald of a deathless fame!
But those are hours of sadness now,
Of vain repining and regret,
For Hope's fair sun hath left my brow—
The darkened light of love hath set!
Sweet Mary! like a tender dream,
A shadow on the rippling stream,
Thou liv'st alone in my clouded brain,
The vision of blest days that cannot dawn again!
I roam to seek thee in the tufted grove,
The dim green wood, where purls that lonely stream,
Where erst, in commune high, we loved to rove,
Wrapt in the glories of Love's morning dream!
Beneath thy bower, in starry gloom,
I hear thy voice, whose music flows—
—Oh! only from the midnight tomb!
Like the fragrant breath of the morning rose!
Chilled to the heart, I wake to weep,
And sigh, alone, once more to sleep,
That Illusion may weave her mystic spell
Round the lone heart that hears the eternal knell!
The dim green wood, where purls that lonely stream,
Where erst, in commune high, we loved to rove,
Wrapt in the glories of Love's morning dream!
274
I hear thy voice, whose music flows—
—Oh! only from the midnight tomb!
Like the fragrant breath of the morning rose!
Chilled to the heart, I wake to weep,
And sigh, alone, once more to sleep,
That Illusion may weave her mystic spell
Round the lone heart that hears the eternal knell!
Friends of my orphan youth, too well beloved!
The true in heart, the tried in faith, the wise—
Ye, wanting not, when long and deeply proved,
In ought that breathes and blossoms in the skies!—
I look around, but where are they?
Like moonlight on the mountain, gone,
Blest spirits! from their strife of day
Up to their home round heaven's high throne!
The pale cold stars smile on the scene
Where life and hope and joy have been,
While lowly they slumber, unsought, unknown!
Beneath the rank green turf and sculptured stone.
The true in heart, the tried in faith, the wise—
Ye, wanting not, when long and deeply proved,
In ought that breathes and blossoms in the skies!—
I look around, but where are they?
Like moonlight on the mountain, gone,
Blest spirits! from their strife of day
Up to their home round heaven's high throne!
The pale cold stars smile on the scene
Where life and hope and joy have been,
While lowly they slumber, unsought, unknown!
Beneath the rank green turf and sculptured stone.
Fain would my thought in grief return to thee,
Lost lovely One! thou twinborn of my soul!
Thy seraph smile, thy fawnlike step I see,
Thy fair hair streams, thy blue eyes laughing roll!
Oh! thou art here in all thy bloom,
And blessedness of heavenly love—
—Hark! that low voice as from the tomb!
That moaning like the widowed dove!
Death's shadow slumbers in her eyes,
Cold, pale and still the victim lies,
Her spirit parts like an autumn even,
Her brow reveals the eternal light of heaven!
Lost lovely One! thou twinborn of my soul!
Thy seraph smile, thy fawnlike step I see,
Thy fair hair streams, thy blue eyes laughing roll!
Oh! thou art here in all thy bloom,
And blessedness of heavenly love—
—Hark! that low voice as from the tomb!
That moaning like the widowed dove!
Death's shadow slumbers in her eyes,
Cold, pale and still the victim lies,
Her spirit parts like an autumn even,
Her brow reveals the eternal light of heaven!
The beauty and the bliss of days gone by
Deepen the darkness of the early doom,
That o'er the glory of my summer sky
Rolls from the deep recesses of the tomb;
Imagination's fairy dreams,
The bloom of beauty in the mind,
The blush of music breathing streams,
Vanish—and leave reality behind!
I see no more the shapes of air,
Nymphs, dryads, oreads—angel things!
That threw abroad their golden hair,
And fann'd the blue heaven with radiant wings!
They are gone from me now,
Like the stars from the brow
Of the forest-crown'd hill, in the still of night—
And sullen sinks the blaze of all that magic light.
Deepen the darkness of the early doom,
That o'er the glory of my summer sky
Rolls from the deep recesses of the tomb;
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The bloom of beauty in the mind,
The blush of music breathing streams,
Vanish—and leave reality behind!
I see no more the shapes of air,
Nymphs, dryads, oreads—angel things!
That threw abroad their golden hair,
And fann'd the blue heaven with radiant wings!
They are gone from me now,
Like the stars from the brow
Of the forest-crown'd hill, in the still of night—
And sullen sinks the blaze of all that magic light.
Cold on my shuddering soul the echoes fall
Of voices heard when every breath was joy:
Sere fall the leaves of youth's green coronal
Wreathed when high hopes were lighted at the sky!
Yet, like Tiresias—prophet old,
Or him—the Samian sage revered!
My o'erfraught bosom still may hold
The power and pride of things unfeared,
And though my song may never be
What it had been in days more free,
Yet its voice may soar above the grave,
Like low prophetic notes from old Trophonius' cave.
Of voices heard when every breath was joy:
Sere fall the leaves of youth's green coronal
Wreathed when high hopes were lighted at the sky!
Yet, like Tiresias—prophet old,
Or him—the Samian sage revered!
My o'erfraught bosom still may hold
The power and pride of things unfeared,
And though my song may never be
What it had been in days more free,
Yet its voice may soar above the grave,
Like low prophetic notes from old Trophonius' cave.
I could lie down on earth's green breast and weep
This weary, faint and hopeless life away,
And sink, at last, in death's undreaming sleep,
Like a fair child, tired of his noontide play;
For I have born and still must bear
The burden of a heart that feels
To deeply for the things that are—
A world that tortures or anneals!
And I would pass beyond their power,
Beyond the triumph of an hour,
Where my heart might catch the inspiring strain
Of bliss in worlds beyond the power of human pain!
This weary, faint and hopeless life away,
And sink, at last, in death's undreaming sleep,
Like a fair child, tired of his noontide play;
For I have born and still must bear
The burden of a heart that feels
To deeply for the things that are—
A world that tortures or anneals!
And I would pass beyond their power,
Beyond the triumph of an hour,
Where my heart might catch the inspiring strain
Of bliss in worlds beyond the power of human pain!
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |