 | The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems |  |
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DIRGE OF THE LEAVES.
The leaves,
The pleasant and green leaves, that hung
Abroad, in the gay summer winds, are dead—
And earth receives
The last of their brown honors, idly strung,
On the old stems, to which, they fondly clung,
Within her bed—
I marvel that their last dirge be not said!
The breeze, shall sing it, as he leaves the main,
To scour the plain;
And goes to rest among the tall, old trees;
How will he sigh, with pain,
To find his ev'ning couch of luxuries
Wither'd upon the ground, where he hath lain.
The pleasant and green leaves, that hung
Abroad, in the gay summer winds, are dead—
And earth receives
The last of their brown honors, idly strung,
On the old stems, to which, they fondly clung,
Within her bed—
I marvel that their last dirge be not said!
The breeze, shall sing it, as he leaves the main,
To scour the plain;
And goes to rest among the tall, old trees;
How will he sigh, with pain,
To find his ev'ning couch of luxuries
Wither'd upon the ground, where he hath lain.
Oh! then,
With a deep mournfulness, and plaintive fall,
Shall he lament,
That they are cast away, beyond his call,
And he not present at their burial—
Nor, to prevent
The eager frost from coming down that glen.
With a deep mournfulness, and plaintive fall,
Shall he lament,
That they are cast away, beyond his call,
And he not present at their burial—
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The eager frost from coming down that glen.
Thus sings he, in his grief,
The last lament above the wither'd leaf:
‘O! never more,
Unburied honors of the pilgrim year,
Shall ye in all your morning dress of green
Appear!
The summer time is o'er,
That we have seen—
And all your early loveliness, how brief!
I shall forget ye on some other shore,
But o'er your fruitless, melancholy bier,
I leave my tear.’
The last lament above the wither'd leaf:
‘O! never more,
Unburied honors of the pilgrim year,
Shall ye in all your morning dress of green
Appear!
The summer time is o'er,
That we have seen—
And all your early loveliness, how brief!
I shall forget ye on some other shore,
But o'er your fruitless, melancholy bier,
I leave my tear.’
Away!
After that brief lament he spreads his wings,
The licensed rover of far Indian seas—
Now, that the hidden charm that led astray,
No longer clings,
With blossoming odor, wooing his wild flight;
And to the sunset dwelling of the day,
With the sad form of Night,
Speeds on his way that melancholy breeze!
After that brief lament he spreads his wings,
The licensed rover of far Indian seas—
Now, that the hidden charm that led astray,
No longer clings,
With blossoming odor, wooing his wild flight;
And to the sunset dwelling of the day,
With the sad form of Night,
Speeds on his way that melancholy breeze!
| The vision of Cortes, Cain, and other poems | |