University of Virginia Library

Forgotten! 'Tis a cold and fearful word,
And sends a thrill of anguish through the heart,
That there will come a day in which our face,
Our voice, our deeds, our love, our very name,
Will be forgotten. When the beaming eyes
That greet us now will all be dark in death;—
When souls that now respond to all our words,
As the Æolian answers to the wind,
Shall have forgotten the familiar tone;—
When those for whom we now act zealously,
Shall need our aid no more, and think no more
Of all that we did for them;—when no trace
Or footprint shall remain to tell of us,
Around the spot where now we toil and rest,
The spot we fondly call our pleasant home;—
When of the hearts that throb reply to ours,
And deem our love the treasure of their lives,
Not one shall be remaining;—when the name
To which we answer, though it may be known,
And call reply from thousands, shall awake
In no one heart on earth a thought of us;
That of the busy hundreds who will throng
The city or the country where we dwelt,
Not one will think of us; and that of those
Who haply occupy the very house
That we have builded, eat the ripened fruit
From off the trees we planted, draw and drink
Cool water from the well that we have dug,
And bless the habitation, the broad tree,
And living water, none will know or care
To whom they are indebted.
Thoughts like these
Lie cold and heavy on the shuddering heart,
What time the shadows of this lower world
Shut from its hemisphere the light of heaven.
To die, to be incorporate—this fair form
Dissolved and mingled with the elements
Of which it is so wondrously composed,
Till even the grave itself retains no trace
Of that which weeping love deposited
Within its sacred bosom. Nature shrinks
From such a terrible nonentity,
And thinks to bribe a nation's gratitude—
To win the admiration of the world—
To add a plume to honour's coronet—
To fix its features on the plastic heart
Of fond enduring love, that some of these
May write its name upon the corner-stone
Of Memory's sacred temple, on the rock
O'er which oblivion's dark and silent sea
Has never heaved its billows. Vain device!
What boots it that a name shall be preserved,
When we ourself, our face, our voice, our love,
Shall be remembered by no living thing!

The heart hath built a refuge for itself,
From thoughts so full of sadness. It hath reared
A temple of the bright but withered buds
Of human tenderness; in which young Hope
Sits, ever singing to her golden lyre:—

Thus hope consoleth hearts that weep or bleed
O'er broken ties, in desolated bowers,
With beautiful delusion that the loves
Of earth are holy, and survive in heaven,
Where love hath but one altar, one pure fire,
And God is “all in all.” Oh, blessed dream!
It lies so soothingly upon the soul!
And we go down so calmly to the grave,
Trusting so earnestly that human love
Will wear us in its bosom evermore.
'Tis sweet to rest us on a chosen breast,
And listen to the pulsing heart within,
While tender accents win us to believe
That every throb is warm with love for us,
And must be always so. Ah, fond, fond heart!
Such trust is sweet; oh, wrap it in strong faith,
And lock it in thine inmost sanctuary,
Where doubt may never find it—where distrust
Can never enter, or experience come
To leave her naked footprints—where the winds
That walk the world and converse with mankind
May find no ingress. In such holy place
Thou mayst preserve it, and with earnest soul
Pay adoration to its holiness;
And it shall be a blessing to thy life,
A joy, a beauty to thee all thy days;
And thou mayst die, believing that thy love
Will live in one devoted tender heart,
Until its latest throb.
But if thy soul
Hold converse with experience, it must learn
That this poor fading, changing, dying heart,
Hath no meet chamber for eternal things.
The holiest tablet of its altar-piece
Is of such frail material, that the waves
Of Time, which break upon it evermore,
Wear out whatever is inscribed thereon,
E'en though the hand of Love hath graved it deep,
With Sorrow's iron pen. There was a time
When I believed in never-dying love;
But I have seen the end of love, as strong,
As warm, as perfect, as has ever burned
Within the heart of man.
I had a friend,—
An innocent and gentle-minded girl,
With form, and face, and eye, and heart, and soul,
As near perfection as 'tis possible
For aught on earth to be. She was beloved,
Ay, tenderly and well beloved by one,
Of whom the wisest of the wise ones said,
That he was worthy of her. They were wed,—
Not merely linked by law, but as it seemed,
Made one by the perfecting of a bond,
Which some mysterious power of destiny,
Had braided of all tender sympathies
Around their hearts, which nestled each to each,
And felt, and throbbed as one.
Oft as I marked
How like a flash of the electric fire,
A thrill of feeling waking in one heart
Passed through the other,—how each beaming face
Was but the other's mirror, faithfully
Reflecting every change of light or shade
That shadow joy or sorrow;—as I marked
This perfect oneness, I believed and said,
Change cannot come between them, or the pow'r
Of death itself divide hearts so entwined,
For surely one cannot be torn away,
And leave one lifestring of the other whole.
They had a child,—a treasure, a delight,
A thing of life, and joy, and loveliness,
A blending of their beings, heart and soul,
A visible and everlasting tie,
The tenderest and dearest link of love;
And their affections, sympathies, and hopes
Seemed gathered in a love-knot in their boy.

But Mary died. I saw her in her shroud,
With death's seal set upon her. The fixed eyes
Gleamed darkly from beneath the heavy fringe
Of the half-open and discoloured lids.
The lips were livid, and the placid smile,
Left by the happy spirit as it passed,
Like radiance left by the departing sun
Upon the western clouds, was fading out
From the unseemly company of death.
The widowed husband sat beside the bier,
In broken-hearted sorrow, with the child
Close nestled to his bosom. I observed
How pale, how very wretched he appeared,
And thought, how soon that hapless little one
Will be without a father, all alone
In this wide world, which mocks the desolate
With clustered flowers and wreaths of kindred hearts,
And clinging sympathies.
Time sped along—
The mourner lived, ay, lived for that sweet child,
And kept the mem'ry of the dear departed fresh
Within his heart and green around his home.
Whatever she had loved or touched, remained
A sacred treasure; and the sodded grave
In which she slept beside the garden wall,
Was bright with garlands all the summer through.
A weeping willow, trained with pious care,
Was sighing there for ever, and the spot
Was guarded from all sacrilegious feet
By high strong paling—and no evening passed,
That did not see the widower, with his child,
Kneeling beside that grave.

But I went forth,
A wanderer o'er the world, and came again
When scarce ten years had glided by.
Oh, treacherous Time!
How dost thou change all things in this false world!
I passed along the once familiar street,
And paused to look a moment on the home
Of Mary living, and of Mary dead.
Oh, what a change was there! a stately front
Concealed the cottage, where my friend had dwelt
In such contented bliss. A columned porch
Was built, where grew her favourite trees and flowers;
Her garden was included in the lawn
That stretched before the mansion, and her grave
Was overgrown with briers and flowers run wild,
That mingled with the swaying willow-boughs.
The fence was broken, and the little gate
Lay almost prostrate, and the yellow rust
Upon the hinges, proved that many a year
It had remained unopened.
While I gazed,
A happy group approached along the lawn,
A gentleman and lady, with a band
Of sportive children. Near that lonely grave,
The lady paused, and in a mournful tone,
Addressed a bright-haired boy—“Here, Theodore,
Is your own mother's grave.” And that boy smiled,
As he replied—“I know it, dear mamma!”
Then turning to her husband, she went on:
“It makes me sad, to look on Mary's grave;—
It wakes a thought that I, like her, may die,
And be, like her, forgotten.”
“Dear Lenore!”
The husband said, in half reproachful tones,
“Dream not that you can ever be forgot;
You make us all so happy with your love,
That we can find no moment for regret
Or mournful memories. But, if that lone grave
Awakes sad feelings in your gentle breast,
It shall be newly fenced and beautified,
And you may rear a monument of flowers,
Meet emblems of your own sweet sympathies,
Above the silent sleeper.”

Sick at heart,
I turned away and wept.
And yet 'tis well
And wisely ordered that the wounds of wo
Should cease to bleed, and that the blighted heart
Should bud and bloom afresh. 'Tis wise and well;
But oh, it dissipates the bright romance
Of Love's fond dreaming, with the clear cold truth,
That even the good, the loving, and beloved,
Before ten summers shine upon their graves,
May be forgotten.