 | Poems |  |
80
MEMORY.
O Memory! who shall paint thee as thou art?
Who shall embody thee, since every heart,
Shaping from self alone
Conception of its own,
Doth o'er thee its peculiar mantle cast?
Sometimes thou watchest o'er the solemn Past,
Like sweet Cordelia by the couch of Lear,
Smoothing with pious hands his snowy hair;
Or young-eyed Spring, a virgin debonair,
By Winter's shrouded bier.
Sometimes thou followest the reaper Time,
Gleaning with needful care whate'er he leaves,
The loose ears shaken from his garnered sheaves,
The relics of our prime;
Sometimes thou sittest like a maid, alone,
In pleasant dreams of Youth, thy true-love flown,
Reading his burning letters o'er for hours,
Kissing his gifts, and all his faded flowers,
And more than all, the miniature of old,
Thick-set with jewels, in a case of gold;
And sometimes, full of grief, thou liest in tears,
Within the solemn sepulchre of Years,
Clasping the urns, and scattering flowers above
The mouldering dust of Hope, and Faith, and Love.
Who shall embody thee, since every heart,
Shaping from self alone
Conception of its own,
Doth o'er thee its peculiar mantle cast?
Sometimes thou watchest o'er the solemn Past,
Like sweet Cordelia by the couch of Lear,
Smoothing with pious hands his snowy hair;
Or young-eyed Spring, a virgin debonair,
By Winter's shrouded bier.
Sometimes thou followest the reaper Time,
Gleaning with needful care whate'er he leaves,
The loose ears shaken from his garnered sheaves,
The relics of our prime;
Sometimes thou sittest like a maid, alone,
In pleasant dreams of Youth, thy true-love flown,
81
Kissing his gifts, and all his faded flowers,
And more than all, the miniature of old,
Thick-set with jewels, in a case of gold;
And sometimes, full of grief, thou liest in tears,
Within the solemn sepulchre of Years,
Clasping the urns, and scattering flowers above
The mouldering dust of Hope, and Faith, and Love.
Thou hast a thousand votaries, Memory!
A thousand happy hearts delight in thee;
What dost thou want with me?
Why dost thou haunt me so? In mercy cease,
And give my tortured heart a moment's peace;
I have a hell within me,—is it naught?
Why stretch me longer on the rack of Thought?
There are some chords of feeling, tender chords,
A touch would break, they are so nearly broken;
And some impassioned words, but bitter words,
Must never more be spoken.
I sigh, but oh! 't is not for thee I sigh;
I thirst, but pass thy maddening beaker by;
I sigh for rest, I thirst for Lethe's wave,
And hope ere long to find them—in my grave!
A thousand happy hearts delight in thee;
What dost thou want with me?
Why dost thou haunt me so? In mercy cease,
And give my tortured heart a moment's peace;
I have a hell within me,—is it naught?
Why stretch me longer on the rack of Thought?
There are some chords of feeling, tender chords,
A touch would break, they are so nearly broken;
And some impassioned words, but bitter words,
Must never more be spoken.
I sigh, but oh! 't is not for thee I sigh;
I thirst, but pass thy maddening beaker by;
I sigh for rest, I thirst for Lethe's wave,
And hope ere long to find them—in my grave!
| Poems | |