 | Aonian Hours; And Other Poems |  |
Stanzas.
When Time, who sets his scornful hand
On all that love and glory rear,
Has laid his desolating wand
On hopes which made our being dear;
We feel that grief, through all the heart
Passing as with a bolt of thunder,
With tears has sapped the infirmer part,
And rent with fire the proud asunder:
All our pride is then to weep,
And wish for death's oblivious sleep.
On all that love and glory rear,
Has laid his desolating wand
On hopes which made our being dear;
We feel that grief, through all the heart
Passing as with a bolt of thunder,
With tears has sapped the infirmer part,
And rent with fire the proud asunder:
All our pride is then to weep,
And wish for death's oblivious sleep.
144
Lorn as an antelope that roves,
His loved one from his sight exiled,
We pace our now deserted groves,
With step more mad, and eye more wild;
And not one spot we loved so much
Throughout the past can charm us now,—
We only feel the blasting touch,
The hand of ruin on our brow;
All our pride is then despair,
And it is agony to bear.
His loved one from his sight exiled,
We pace our now deserted groves,
With step more mad, and eye more wild;
And not one spot we loved so much
Throughout the past can charm us now,—
We only feel the blasting touch,
The hand of ruin on our brow;
All our pride is then despair,
And it is agony to bear.
But if upon that desart spot,
Another withered heart we meet,
In our desertedness of lot,
The very sound of grief is sweet;
For then the accordant spirits know
In every tear, by every token,
There is a balm exists below
For peace destroyed, and bosoms broken:
A little music breaks our woe—
But solemn still the strain, and low.
Another withered heart we meet,
In our desertedness of lot,
The very sound of grief is sweet;
For then the accordant spirits know
In every tear, by every token,
There is a balm exists below
For peace destroyed, and bosoms broken:
A little music breaks our woe—
But solemn still the strain, and low.
145
When breathed the sympathizing sigh,
When pity's silent tear is shed,
A fitful sunshine seeks the eye,
The weeds of pain are withered;
We strew the nightshade on the wind,
Look for a flower not quite so sad,
And if a livelier one we find,
We praise it, and are inly glad:
And smile—but do not dare to own
Our mourning hearts are lighter grown.
When pity's silent tear is shed,
A fitful sunshine seeks the eye,
The weeds of pain are withered;
We strew the nightshade on the wind,
Look for a flower not quite so sad,
And if a livelier one we find,
We praise it, and are inly glad:
And smile—but do not dare to own
Our mourning hearts are lighter grown.
Hast thou the spirit-soothing tear—
The settled calm from Sorrow felt?
Welcomed that ray from Mercy's sphere,
To chillness long unused to melt?
If Grief thy bosom thus has wrung,
If thus thy soul the charm has known,
Which in thy sky a rainbow hung,
And bound thy waist with Comfort's zone—
I for thee, and thou for me,
Will deem it still a bliss to be.—
The settled calm from Sorrow felt?
Welcomed that ray from Mercy's sphere,
To chillness long unused to melt?
If Grief thy bosom thus has wrung,
If thus thy soul the charm has known,
Which in thy sky a rainbow hung,
And bound thy waist with Comfort's zone—
I for thee, and thou for me,
Will deem it still a bliss to be.—
| Aonian Hours; And Other Poems | |