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EPECEDIUM.
I.
The sumach, colored like a dying ember,Proclaims the race of fiery Summer o'er;
Resigning crown and throne to mild September,
She reigns no more.
99
II.
Not only radiant Summer hath departed,But a dear friend has left this darkened clime;
One nobly gifted, pure and gentle-hearted
Is done with time.
III.
Again will summer come back with the swallow,Bearing a rose-wreathed sceptre in her hand,
And airy beings in her train will follow
From Fairy-Land;
IV.
Again will Earth, arrayed in rich apparel,The bloom and freshness of its youth renew,
And skies that listen to the lark's wild carol,
Be robed in blue:
V.
But who come back to still the restless yearningIn aching bosoms, from Death's chill domain?
With prayers and tears we wait for their returning,
In vain, in vain!
VI.
Faster and faster from his ghostly quiver,By the Pale Archer deadly shafts are drawn;
With every breath, across the still, black river,
Another's gone.
VII.
“We are such stuff as dreams are made of,” singethWith thrilling power earth's grandly gifted son;
And ere the seed we plant in toil upspringeth,
Our work is done.
100
VIII.
How weak are mortals in their best condition!How frail the tenure of an earthly trust!
On every wind we hear the stern monition
Of “dust to dust!”
IX.
Ye childless parents of the dead! oft fatedAre the heart's idols first to pass away
From this dark sphere—we cherish hope, translated
To endless day.
X.
The canker feeds upon the sweetest roses,And shafts spare not the bird of brightest plume;
On Beauty's brow the pale seal oft reposes
Of early doom.
XI.
What consolation can the mourner borrowFrom an affliction like the one ye bear?
What lenitive can cure the pangs of sorrow
Your hearts that tear?
XII.
The blissful thought that he hath left behind himA stainless name—a record without blot—
And well fulfilled the tasks that were assigned him,
And faltered not.
XIII.
The blissful thought that noble emulationFired his brave, generous spirit to the last;
His aim, a proud position in the nation
When youth was past.
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XIV.
The blissful thought that war and wild commotionVex not the quiet realm that claims your son;
While ye are tossed upon a troubled ocean,
His port is won.
XV.
If skill were mine the wondrous harp to wakenThat sang of “Lycidas without a peer,”
A dirge more worthy friend so early taken
The world should hear.
XVI.
But all a bard whose soul is crushed and brokenCan give, by way of tribute, I bestow,
Though nothing more than sighings that betoken
His utter wo.
XVII.
Better to perish in the happy morning,Than travel through the day with fainting form,
Night coming on, with thunder-mutter warning,
In darkness—storm;
XVIII.
Perish before the soul is disenchanted,And turns with loathing from the things of time,
To find the world it clung to demon-haunted,
And foul with crime.
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