 | Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell |  |
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LONGFELLOW.
IN MEMORIAM.
Mourned by two nations, as is meet,
He lieth dead—the Singer sweet.
He lieth dead—the Singer sweet.
Our thoughts turn towards his honoured grave,
Beyond the broad Atlantic wave.
Beyond the broad Atlantic wave.
Alas! that even he must fall
'Neath the same dart that strikes us all.
'Neath the same dart that strikes us all.
Could not grim Death pass by our dead?
Lay low some less-beloved head?
Lay low some less-beloved head?
His silent lips will nevermore
Charm us, as in the days of yore;
Charm us, as in the days of yore;
Nor ever shall that voice again
Delight us with its flute-like strain.
Delight us with its flute-like strain.
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How well he played the Poet's part
And dignified his noble art!
And dignified his noble art!
His life was like a perfect psalm,
Majestic, beautiful, and calm.
Majestic, beautiful, and calm.
The calmness came to him through pain,
Which gave the sweetness to his strain.
Which gave the sweetness to his strain.
For he had suffered—known the grief
Too great for all but God's relief.
Too great for all but God's relief.
The Singer's song became divine
When Sorrow made his heart her shrine.
When Sorrow made his heart her shrine.
Nature he loved in every mood;
He was her child, and understood
He was her child, and understood
The meanings of her changing forms,
Her clouds, her sunshine, and her storms.
Her clouds, her sunshine, and her storms.
He sang the beauty of the hills;
The music of the tuneful rills
The music of the tuneful rills
Ran in his verse, where the low breeze
Murmured amongst the leafy trees.
Murmured amongst the leafy trees.
Sweet songs of flowers to him were giv'n,
And stars that keep their watch in heav'n,
And stars that keep their watch in heav'n,
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And odours blown from forests deep,
And dews that on the meadows sleep;
And dews that on the meadows sleep;
The rain, and storm, and drifts of snow,
That round the Indian Wigwams blow.
That round the Indian Wigwams blow.
The rush of stream, the roar of fall,
The thunder crash,—he sang them all.
The thunder crash,—he sang them all.
“Voices” came to him “of the Night,”
Visions of “angels” bless'd his sight.
Visions of “angels” bless'd his sight.
“The sea kept secrets” for his ear,
Its hidden depths to him were clear.
Its hidden depths to him were clear.
We think of him—so good, so true!
And tender tears our eyes bedew.
And tender tears our eyes bedew.
We miss him sorely from earth's quire;
We weep to see his unstrung lyre.
We weep to see his unstrung lyre.
No more he'll sing upon this earth
Of Love, of Bridal, Death, or Birth.
Of Love, of Bridal, Death, or Birth.
Alas! we wish—but all in vain—
“Hyperion” were with us again.
“Hyperion” were with us again.
“The children” by the evening fire
Yearn for him with a vague desire.
Yearn for him with a vague desire.
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He loved them well: had sung their fears,
Their hopes, their pleasures, and their tears.
Their hopes, their pleasures, and their tears.
Yea, all who tender memories own,
Mourn for their peerless Minstrel gone.
Mourn for their peerless Minstrel gone.
But though he sings on earth no more,
His voice is heard on that far shore,
His voice is heard on that far shore,
Where, on the Sea of Glass and Fire,
He stands among God's sweet-voiced quire.
He stands among God's sweet-voiced quire.
There never minor mars the song
That floats the crystal spheres along.
That floats the crystal spheres along.
If ours the loss, if ours the pain,
His, surely, is the bliss,—the gain.
His, surely, is the bliss,—the gain.
And fragrant as the breath of flowers,
He leaves a memory which is ours.
He leaves a memory which is ours.
| Diana's Looking Glass and Other Poems by Charles D. Bell | |