 | The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell |  |
142
A DIRGE
ON THE SUBJECT OF A BEAUTIFUL POEM OF A FRIEND, IN THE GERMAN.
With a sweet smile the gentle features glisten,
Though noiseless death has frozen all below:
Unconsciously we stoop the head, to listen
For words that from these open lips should flow.
Along her brow the smooth, dark hair is braided;
The yielding drapery folds smoothly round:
And on her breast there lies, but newly faded,
A token that the hand of love has found,
A lily of the vale,
Tender and slight and pale,
And in the bosom of its dark leaf shaded.
Though noiseless death has frozen all below:
Unconsciously we stoop the head, to listen
For words that from these open lips should flow.
Along her brow the smooth, dark hair is braided;
The yielding drapery folds smoothly round:
And on her breast there lies, but newly faded,
A token that the hand of love has found,
A lily of the vale,
Tender and slight and pale,
And in the bosom of its dark leaf shaded.
This form is mute! the soul that filled its being
Taught it to weep, to triumph, and to pray,
Gave it a skill of loving, hearing, seeing,—
She that was all to it,—is gone away.
This will not speak, but, silent and forsaken,
It only waits to be restored to dust
From which for a short moment it was taken:
Bright time! but it has passed, as all time must
This sweet and pleasant smile
That lingers here a while,
It is the last that fellowship will waken.
Taught it to weep, to triumph, and to pray,
Gave it a skill of loving, hearing, seeing,—
She that was all to it,—is gone away.
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It only waits to be restored to dust
From which for a short moment it was taken:
Bright time! but it has passed, as all time must
This sweet and pleasant smile
That lingers here a while,
It is the last that fellowship will waken.
So still it is, there seems to float before us
A slight strain,—that sweet voice we longed to hear:
Her glad companions in her better chorus
Pardoning the love that bids her linger near;
And while in soft and tender words she singeth
What, last, those dear lips stood apart to say
(As one that back, with gentle motion bringeth
Some slight web that the wind had borne away)
They give their sister-aid,
And o'er the soul conveyed
The melody round every feeling clingeth:
A slight strain,—that sweet voice we longed to hear:
Her glad companions in her better chorus
Pardoning the love that bids her linger near;
And while in soft and tender words she singeth
What, last, those dear lips stood apart to say
(As one that back, with gentle motion bringeth
Some slight web that the wind had borne away)
They give their sister-aid,
And o'er the soul conveyed
The melody round every feeling clingeth:
“Weep not for one soon called to travel yonder
Ere she loved earth and things of earth too well:
Who in this weary wilderness would wander
Whom Christ had called in His fair house to dwell?
Give ye these relics to the earth's calm keeping;
And let her share them to the grass and flowers,
With a new freshness all this cast form steeping
And filling up, with newer life, its powers.
No longer I am bound
In that close, narrow round;
Let smiles break up this darkness of your weeping.”
Ere she loved earth and things of earth too well:
Who in this weary wilderness would wander
Whom Christ had called in His fair house to dwell?
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And let her share them to the grass and flowers,
With a new freshness all this cast form steeping
And filling up, with newer life, its powers.
No longer I am bound
In that close, narrow round;
Let smiles break up this darkness of your weeping.”
The strain is hushed: it was but fancy speaking;
Yet may such higher sense be often mine!
For what in earth is better worth the seeking
From our good God, than such a boon divine,
To walk, as near the unseen confines rounding
This life of ours from that of spirits blest,
And hear sweet sounds across the limits bounding,
Sounds that wake feelings holiest and best;
As one that on the shore
Hears fitfully sweep o'er
The music from some happy isle resounding?
Yet may such higher sense be often mine!
For what in earth is better worth the seeking
From our good God, than such a boon divine,
To walk, as near the unseen confines rounding
This life of ours from that of spirits blest,
And hear sweet sounds across the limits bounding,
Sounds that wake feelings holiest and best;
As one that on the shore
Hears fitfully sweep o'er
The music from some happy isle resounding?
Sweet girl! thou hadst the poet-glance, that throweth
Its own bright hues where'er it chance to fall;
As the stained glass with mellow beauties streweth
All its glance toucheth, giving life to all.
Thou knewest, too, the frequent, holy feeling
That like some gentle creature, in his play,
Across thy quiet mind came silent stealing,—
Thou fearedst to move, lest he should start away:
The gentle thought of thee
Shall in my heart be free,
Stirring new thoughts and finer ties revealing.
Its own bright hues where'er it chance to fall;
As the stained glass with mellow beauties streweth
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Thou knewest, too, the frequent, holy feeling
That like some gentle creature, in his play,
Across thy quiet mind came silent stealing,—
Thou fearedst to move, lest he should start away:
The gentle thought of thee
Shall in my heart be free,
Stirring new thoughts and finer ties revealing.
Schenectady, N. Y., 1841.
| The poems of Robert Traill Spence Lowell | |