WILLIS G. CLARK
LINES WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE.
A mournful tone the night-air brings, about this lonely tomb,
Like thoughts of fair and faded things amid life's changeful gloom;
Deep shadows of the past are here!—and fancy wanders back,
When joy woke in this mouldering breast, now pass'd from life's worn track:
When hope made glad his spirit here, as the pure summer-rain
Pours its sweet influence on the earth, with all her flowery train;
While buds were tossing in the breeze beneath a deep blue sky—
And pleasure's chant was in his ear, ere he had gone to die!
Youth, too, was his—its morning hour—its sunlight for his brow—
Its phantoms shone, for him to chase, in giddy round, but now;
Perchance the glee of his young heart—the glancing of his eye
Hath been upon another shore, beneath a brighter sky:—
The night-tones have no tales to tell—no history to unfold—
The tall, sere grass, that waves alone, in sadness o'er his mould—
These speak not—deep in dreamless rest, the peaceful sleeper lies;
There is no pang to rend his heart,—no grief to dim his eyes!
Perchance, in halcyon hours of Youth, a transient dream of love
Came to his brain while earth was joy, and heaven was light above;—
When his soul was fill'd with gladsome thought—and in idolatry
He bow'd him to that holy shrine, which in our youth we see;
A star above life's troubled scene—a gleam upon its wave—
A ray, whose light is soon eclipsed, in the darkness of the grave;
A song, which like the mirthful tone of wild birds on the wing,
Dies when the dewy even-tide enshrouds a sky of spring!
I know but this—Death's shadows dwell upon his deep-seal'd eye;
Vainly earth laughs in joy for him, or the blue summer-sky—
The gales may tell where flowers repose, or where the young buds swell;
Their soft chant may not enter here, within this voiceless cell—
Flowers, dreams, and grief, alike are past—and why should man reply,
When life is but a wilderness whose promise soon may die—
'T is but a home, where all must sleep—change, which to all must come—
A curtain, which o'er ALL must spread its deep, o'ershadowing gloom!
The wail of the expiring year is in the deep brown woods—
The leaf is borne upon the stream, in its dark solitudes:—
The clouds are on the chasten'd hills—the floods are wild and high—
The mournful pall is lingering, where faded blossoms lie:—
Then here should monitory thoughts be treasured in the breast
That life is but a changeful hour—and Death, a holy rest,
Where grief's loud wail or bursting tears ne'er to its stillness come;
But silence reigns within its hall, wrapp'd in its shrouded home!
EXTRACT FROM A NEW YEAR ADDRESS.
Come to my soul, thou Spirit of the Lyre!
'T is the deep, cloudy midnight; and the wail
Of the cold wind is on its strings of fire,
And on the far hills, rising, dimly pale!
Ah! wake thy murmurs on the troubled gale—
Pour the sad requiem o'er the dying year—
Give to man's thoughtful eye a passing tale
Of days departed, bright as beauty's tear,
Or summer's festal sky, ere autumn clouds drew near!
From the dark sepulchre of years gone by,
A deeply mournful voice is murmuring,
“Where are the dreams of old!—the spirit high
Mounting like eagles on the fearless wing?
Where is the pride of that luxuriant spring,
Which pour'd its light on Rome—on Babylon?
—The wreaths of Time around their temples cling—
Their halls are dust!—the gold of Chaldee won—
Where sails the bittern's wing, when the bright day is done
Even thus with the past year;—its morn was gay—
Sweet flowers were on the earth's green bosom springing—
And streaming sunlight bless'd the sky of May,
Where early birds their joyous way were winging,
A dream of love to youth's fresh spirit bringing;
And all was gladness o'er the laughing earth:—
To the tall oak the sunny vine was clinging—
And sending echoes, e'en to home and hearth,
The sweet blue streams, set free, pour'd out a voice of mirth
Then came the summer's prime—its long, bright day—
With garniture of wood, and field, and stream—
The golden sun outpour'd his gladdening ray,
And the blue sea danced in his boundless gleam;—
When like a soft, and faint-heard song, would seem
The cheerful murmur of the drowsy bee,
About the full grown flowers—and like a dream
Spread out for man's blest eye the scene might be,
While a soft, breezy chant, was in the green-wood tree!
Then frown'd the autumnal cloud; the shrouded sky
Its multitude of gleams and stars withdrew;
The flowers grew pale; and summer-brooks were high,
And imaged back no more a heaven of blue;—
No moon smiled out upon the evening dew—
The squirrel's footstep rustled in the glen—
The red leaves fell, and fitful night-winds blew;
And to the bright south-west, away from men,
Far, on their glancing plumes, roam'd the wild birds again!
But man is changing in the changing year—
Shadows o'ersweep the day-spring of the heart;
When gazing back upon Time's dim career,
He marks youth's cheerful images depart!
Then will lone Memory her tales impart
Of early buds, all ashes in the urn:—
Mournful and sweet her reveries!—but we start—
And from lost years unto the present turn—
Closing from mind's deep cell, the voiceless thoughts that burn!
How many dreams have to the dust gone down—
Witness thou fading and departed year!
Since last thy spring enwreathed her flowery crown,—
Lo! gentle forms have lain upon the bier,
Where thoughtful sorrow pour'd the pensive tear!
Genius and beauty gather'd to their rest—
Death, in all climes, is on his way of fear—
His arrow trembles in Youth's budding breast—
Oh! were his power decay'd, how might Earth's love be bless'd!
