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 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
87
LAMENT OF PERICLES.
[“Pericles neither wept, nor performed any funeral rites, nor was he seen at the grave of any of his nearest relations, until the death of Paralus, his last surviving son. This at last subdued him. He attempted, indeed, then, to keep up his usual calm behavior and serenity of mind; but in putting the garland upon the head of the deceased, his firmness forsook him. He could not bear the sad spectacle, and broke out into loud lamentation.”]
Plutarch.
Chide not these tears! my fondest hopes are blighted,
And life henceforward will a burthen be;
Chill airs of death at length have disunited
The noblest scion from its parent tree:
Beneath yon dark and veiling pall extended,
The pallid wreck of youth and beauty lies,
The quick pulsation of that breast is ended,
And light hath early faded from those eyes.
And life henceforward will a burthen be;
Chill airs of death at length have disunited
The noblest scion from its parent tree:
Beneath yon dark and veiling pall extended,
The pallid wreck of youth and beauty lies,
The quick pulsation of that breast is ended,
And light hath early faded from those eyes.
While sadly gazing on those darksome tresses
That still their silken loveliness retain,
I feel once more his passionate caresses,
And hear that lip breathe melody again.
Lost boy! my days, hereafter, will be clouded,
For grief is deeply rooted in my breast;
While gazing on thee, pale and darkly shrouded,
I almost envy thy unbreathing rest.
That still their silken loveliness retain,
I feel once more his passionate caresses,
And hear that lip breathe melody again.
Lost boy! my days, hereafter, will be clouded,
For grief is deeply rooted in my breast;
While gazing on thee, pale and darkly shrouded,
I almost envy thy unbreathing rest.
The voice of grief falls on that ear unnoted—
Those arms will wreathe around my neck no more;
The face of him on whom my bosom doated
Wears not the look of earthliness it wore.
I little thought while summer winds were drying
The childish tear upon thy dimpled cheek,
Soon, like the work of some rare sculptor lying,
Mine eyes would gaze upon thy corse, young Greek.
Those arms will wreathe around my neck no more;
The face of him on whom my bosom doated
Wears not the look of earthliness it wore.
I little thought while summer winds were drying
The childish tear upon thy dimpled cheek,
Soon, like the work of some rare sculptor lying,
Mine eyes would gaze upon thy corse, young Greek.
88
Unfeeling tyrant! when the smile is brightest,
Why call away the beautifully fair?
Why still the pulses when the step is lightest,
And wretched leave the bowed and gray of hair?
Ah! the last blossom of my house is faded,
And the cold sternness of my look hath fled;
The pale sepulchral chaplet I have braided
Around the icy temples of my dead.
Why call away the beautifully fair?
Why still the pulses when the step is lightest,
And wretched leave the bowed and gray of hair?
Ah! the last blossom of my house is faded,
And the cold sternness of my look hath fled;
The pale sepulchral chaplet I have braided
Around the icy temples of my dead.
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |