 | Areytos or songs and ballads of the South |  |
360
BALLAD.—THE ASPHODEL.
[_]
[With the Greeks, the Asphodel was the emblem of Death. It was held to be the favorite food of departed spirits. As a member of the lily family, haunting lonely tarns, gloomy waters shaded by the cypress, and, by its pure beauties, contrasting so spiritually with the localities in which we find it, there is a significance in this designation of the flower, reminding us forcibly of the malarious character of the regions which it seems to prefer.]
I.
Thou hast brought me a beautiful wreath,But alas for us both, alas!
Thou hast gathered the asphodel,
Thou hast brought me the flower of death—
The beautiful flower of death!
Dost thou not feel its breath?—
The odor of the grave and the grass,
Of the swamp and the dark morass,
The perishing things that pass—
Of the clay that tell, and the hollow cell,
And the cypress that stoops to the gloom,
As if hung o'er the brow of doom?
Alas for us both, alas!
It is Death thou hast brought me—Death!
II.
And its odor's abroad in the air,Though the summer bloom be bright;
Though the jessamine hangs with a beauty rare,
And woos through the shade to the light;
And there's never a breath in the sky,
And never a sign of cloud;
And the woods and the waters are all so fair,
And the purple blossoms are flaunting proud,
361
Like large moist eyes looking love in a dream.
Oh! lovely and sweet beyond compare,
So wooing and blessing—so fair—so fair!
III.
So the serpent lies under the rose—So, in hushes of noon and night,
The Tempest takes his repose,
At the dawning of day or its close;
And the sunset hush and the calm
Sink into our very souls like balm,
And we dream of a new delight!—
But the very hush is a fright,
And we feel there's a breath of blight;
And the conscious soul that has felt before,
With a shuddering sense that may sleep no more,
Feels that Death is abroad in the air!—
Though there be no cloud,
And the sky be fair,
Yet it knows that the shroud,
The shroud, is near:
That the Death is abroad—is abroad in the air!
IV.
Alas for us both, alas!For what if but one shall fall—
We two, alone, who have dwelt as one—
If but one shall hear the call,
If but one of us twain shall fall!
What were Life then to thee or to me—
Life in its horror alone?
Could'st thou bear to behold me pass?—
Could I spread o'er thy limbs the pall?
362
To think or to know when the one is gone—
The one who was ever the one o'er all,
The all that we've sought, or loved, or known,
The all that we've cared to meet or to moan?
Alas for us both, alas!
Alone! alone! alone!
V.
I know that the doom is near:The fearful sign, it is mine, it is mine!
Yet to feel that the skies are so bright and clear;
And thou so bright, and both so dear!—
Yet where, thou ask'st, oh where?
In what is the portent of fear?
And how should so dread a sign
Thus lurk in a simple flow'r?
Alas for us both, alas!
When so simple a sign hath power
For the voice that speaks in the heart!
Oh speak with that voice of thine!
Speak, soothe me and stifle the fear,
That cries with such midnight tone,
So full of terror, so stark and so drear!
Alas for us both, alas!
It passes—the shadow—'twas meant to pass:
And hark, as it goes, it cries—it cries,
Hollowly, hollowly—groans and sighs:
“Depart! Depart! Depart!”
The doom is in every murmur of moan—
And the doom, it is mine, it is mine!
God be praised that 'tis only mine!
That it is not thine—that it is not thine,
Beloved! it is not thine!
363
VI.
Yet how dreary the prayer—how little fond—As if life for either had aught beyond
The hour that shall see the one of us pass!
Alas for us both, alas!
What of thee when I am gone;
When my voice thou shalt hear no more;
When this loving breast, in its own deep rest,
Shall yield nor pillow nor rest to thine,
As in the long nights of yore?
Oh! the horror to think of thee—
Thou in thy widowhood lone,
Looking forth, but withouten moan,
But evermore looking forth lone!
Ah! then, when my agony's o'er,
And thou look'st for no love of mine,
Yet, at midnight thou callest for me—
Calling through slumbers that soothe no more—
Calling, how vainly, with what sad tone—
While the shadows pass o'er the misty glass,
And Day looks in with a glare through the pane,
Though the dawn brings with it the clouds and rain,
And thou feel'st that both are vain—
The night and the dawn!—
Oh! the horror to think of thee,
Thus, in thy widowhood lone—
How lone, how lone, but withouten moan,
Thou lone—how lone—and I gone! I gone!
| Areytos or songs and ballads of the South | |