 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
196
TO J--- S---.
There sounds the drum in the street,
And the soldiers are marching by,
And the trumpet sounds,—but thy little feet
Are still—and thy joyous cry
Will never that marching greet,
Oh! never, never, again!
Nor thy sunny form at the window stand
To list to that martial strain;
Yet I cannot but think I shall hear thy voice,
Though I know the thought is vain.
And the soldiers are marching by,
And the trumpet sounds,—but thy little feet
Are still—and thy joyous cry
Will never that marching greet,
Oh! never, never, again!
Nor thy sunny form at the window stand
To list to that martial strain;
Yet I cannot but think I shall hear thy voice,
Though I know the thought is vain.
I think of thee often as gone
For only a summer's day,
In these earthly gardens laughing to run
With thy friends at thy human play.
I dream, when the day is done
I shall hear thy foot on the stair,
And welcome thee back with thine innocent face
And thy frank, pure, noble air,
And kiss thee again, and see thee again,
Till the dream is like despair.
For only a summer's day,
In these earthly gardens laughing to run
With thy friends at thy human play.
197
I shall hear thy foot on the stair,
And welcome thee back with thine innocent face
And thy frank, pure, noble air,
And kiss thee again, and see thee again,
Till the dream is like despair.
Up in a sunnier field,
I know thou art playing now,
And a purer day to thine eyes unsealed,
And a light on thine angel brow,—
And over and over again
I say,—“He is happier now,
He never will suffer the pain
That is knitting this human brow,
But ah! for us who must here remain
How shall we bear it—how?”
I know thou art playing now,
And a purer day to thine eyes unsealed,
And a light on thine angel brow,—
And over and over again
I say,—“He is happier now,
He never will suffer the pain
That is knitting this human brow,
But ah! for us who must here remain
How shall we bear it—how?”
“There is the empty chair
Where he always used to sit,
But his little figure no more is there,
A ghost now sits in it.
It sits, and it will not rise
To leave it a moment's space—
Forever there in the empty place;
I see through my streaming eyes
The shadowy shape of that noble grace
That has gone into the skies.
Where he always used to sit,
But his little figure no more is there,
198
It sits, and it will not rise
To leave it a moment's space—
Forever there in the empty place;
I see through my streaming eyes
The shadowy shape of that noble grace
That has gone into the skies.
“The little stubbed-out shoes
That he always used to wear,
The little dress, with its pockets filled
With his trifles, is lying there—
How living to me they seem.”
And I gaze at them, and gaze
As if in a sort of dream,
Recalling the vanished days
When he sported in them by hill and stream,
All the happy summer days.
That he always used to wear,
The little dress, with its pockets filled
With his trifles, is lying there—
How living to me they seem.”
And I gaze at them, and gaze
As if in a sort of dream,
Recalling the vanished days
When he sported in them by hill and stream,
All the happy summer days.
My little beloved boy!
Even where thou art, in heaven,
There never can be a purer joy
Than thou to us hast given;
Who never once made us grieve
Till the sad, dark angel came
And opened the heaven-gates to receive
Thy spirit's vestal flame,
And thy human tongue no more would speak
When we called thy beloved name.
Even where thou art, in heaven,
199
Than thou to us hast given;
Who never once made us grieve
Till the sad, dark angel came
And opened the heaven-gates to receive
Thy spirit's vestal flame,
And thy human tongue no more would speak
When we called thy beloved name.
Rome, Dec. 1854.
| Poems by William W. Story | |