 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
237
REQUIEM.
“Forget the dead, the past! O yet
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it;
Memories that make the heart a tomb.”
Shelley.
There are ghosts that may take revenge for it;
Memories that make the heart a tomb.”
Shelley.
When the warring voice of storm is heard,
Across the sea goes the summer bird;
But back again the wanderer flies
When April's azure drapes the skies,
With carol sweet
The morn to greet;
But the radiant girl whom we deplore,
To the bower of home will return no more.
Across the sea goes the summer bird;
But back again the wanderer flies
When April's azure drapes the skies,
With carol sweet
The morn to greet;
But the radiant girl whom we deplore,
To the bower of home will return no more.
Decay, a loathsome bridegroom, now
Kisses with mildewed lip her brow;
Her heart is colder than the rill
When Winter bids its tongue be still,
Yet Spring will come,
With song and bloom,
And unchain the silvery feet of waves,
But break no bond in voiceless graves.
Kisses with mildewed lip her brow;
Her heart is colder than the rill
When Winter bids its tongue be still,
Yet Spring will come,
With song and bloom,
And unchain the silvery feet of waves,
But break no bond in voiceless graves.
Wasting away with a sad decline,
Far from her own green hills of pine,
She would wander back to them in dreams,
To hear the roar of their rushing streams;
And often spoke
Of a favorite oak
On the door-sill flinging pleasant shade,
And under which, a child, she played.
Far from her own green hills of pine,
She would wander back to them in dreams,
To hear the roar of their rushing streams;
And often spoke
Of a favorite oak
On the door-sill flinging pleasant shade,
And under which, a child, she played.
238
When beat no more her snow-white breast,
Strange hands the lovely ruin drest,
Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,
Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;
And strangers gave
To our dead a grave,
Sprinkling above the fair remains
Mould moistened by autumnal rains.
Strange hands the lovely ruin drest,
Smoothing, upon the forehead fair,
Loose, glittering flakes of golden hair;
And strangers gave
To our dead a grave,
Sprinkling above the fair remains
Mould moistened by autumnal rains.
Ah! since she died, a wilder wail
Is uttered by the midnight gale,
And voices mourning something gone,
Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn;
And sadness broods
Above the woods,
Moaning, as if endowed with soul,
For through their depths she loved to stroll.
Is uttered by the midnight gale,
And voices mourning something gone,
Rise from the dead leaves on the lawn;
And sadness broods
Above the woods,
Moaning, as if endowed with soul,
For through their depths she loved to stroll.
The lute that answered when she sung
Old airs at twilight, is unstrung—
She wakes where the sainted dwell alone
An instrument of richer tone;
And angels smile
On her the while,
And to garland her sinless brow of snow
The rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow.
Old airs at twilight, is unstrung—
She wakes where the sainted dwell alone
An instrument of richer tone;
And angels smile
On her the while,
And to garland her sinless brow of snow
The rarest blossoms of Heaven bestow.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |