 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
227
EPICEDIUM.
“But, O the heavy change, now thou art gone,
Now thou art gone, and never must return.”
Milton.
Now thou art gone, and never must return.”
Milton.
When her brow, untouched by corroding care,
Like the fold of a summer cloud, was fair;
When the glance of her bright dark eye outshone
The dazzling blaze of the diamond stone;
In treacherous guise the spoiler came,
And a wintry chill ran through her frame:
From branching vein and soft lip fled
Celestial blue and the brightest red;
Her smile, ere the vital spring was dried,
To a world like ours was unallied;
On her cheek the rose grew strangely white
And she melted away like a shape of light.
Like the fold of a summer cloud, was fair;
When the glance of her bright dark eye outshone
The dazzling blaze of the diamond stone;
In treacherous guise the spoiler came,
And a wintry chill ran through her frame:
From branching vein and soft lip fled
Celestial blue and the brightest red;
Her smile, ere the vital spring was dried,
To a world like ours was unallied;
On her cheek the rose grew strangely white
And she melted away like a shape of light.
Since the cold remains of the sleeping maid
In the silent hall of death were laid,
The bright autumnal moon hath shed
Its purest beam on her narrow bed,
And winds, with sorrow in their tone,
On the dampened mould dead leaves have thrown.
Her spirit dwells in that radiant land
Where the blighted blossoms of earth expand;
Where dews from the throne of mercy fall,
And things unknown are shroud and pall;
Where beauty, safe from winter's rime,
Enjoys an endless summer time.
In the silent hall of death were laid,
The bright autumnal moon hath shed
Its purest beam on her narrow bed,
And winds, with sorrow in their tone,
On the dampened mould dead leaves have thrown.
Her spirit dwells in that radiant land
Where the blighted blossoms of earth expand;
Where dews from the throne of mercy fall,
And things unknown are shroud and pall;
Where beauty, safe from winter's rime,
Enjoys an endless summer time.
Her look, all love, had the magical power
Of gilding the darkest, the loneliest hour;
On her sylph-like form the old would gaze
And remember the freshness of younger days:
Henceforth there will be a vacant seat
In halls where the gay and lovely meet;
The brightest star of the festal throng
Will gladden the breast no more with song;
Her tuneful voice is no longer heard—
On her lip hath died the warbled word.
Of gilding the darkest, the loneliest hour;
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And remember the freshness of younger days:
Henceforth there will be a vacant seat
In halls where the gay and lovely meet;
The brightest star of the festal throng
Will gladden the breast no more with song;
Her tuneful voice is no longer heard—
On her lip hath died the warbled word.
When sunset gilds yon azure lake,
And murmuring winds the surges wake,
She will leave, she will leave on the pebbly shore
The print of her fairy foot no more.
From his broad lap soon will youthful spring
Bright robes of green on the meadow fling,
And blossoms, gemming the velvet sward,
With her couch of rest will well accord;
For our lost one was a peerless flower,
By the foe cut down in its dawning hour.
And murmuring winds the surges wake,
She will leave, she will leave on the pebbly shore
The print of her fairy foot no more.
From his broad lap soon will youthful spring
Bright robes of green on the meadow fling,
And blossoms, gemming the velvet sward,
With her couch of rest will well accord;
For our lost one was a peerless flower,
By the foe cut down in its dawning hour.
If shadows of gloom becloud the brow
When sere leaves fall from the parent bough;
If sorrow-pains convulse the heart
When the weary and gray of hair depart—
Well may the storm of grief unseal
The tearful fount in a breast of steel,
When frost descends from the clear, cold sky,
And the buds of blesséd promise die;
When the ghastly king his banner rears,
And calls to his realm the young in years.
When sere leaves fall from the parent bough;
If sorrow-pains convulse the heart
When the weary and gray of hair depart—
Well may the storm of grief unseal
The tearful fount in a breast of steel,
When frost descends from the clear, cold sky,
And the buds of blesséd promise die;
When the ghastly king his banner rears,
And calls to his realm the young in years.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |