 | Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights |  |
30
THE FALL OF USHER.
“Thou wert the Morning Star among the living,
Ere thy fair light had fled;
But, having died, thou art like Hesperus giving
New splendor to the dead.”
—Plato's Aster.
Ere thy fair light had fled;
But, having died, thou art like Hesperus giving
New splendor to the dead.”
—Plato's Aster.
“Thou art gone to the grave!” but thy spirit is shining,
And singing afar in the Realms of the Blest;
While the living are left by thy cold grave reclining,
And mourning for thee while they long for thy rest—
Left mourning for thee while they long for thy rest!
And singing afar in the Realms of the Blest;
While the living are left by thy cold grave reclining,
And mourning for thee while they long for thy rest—
Left mourning for thee while they long for thy rest!
“Thou art gone to the grave!” thou art gone where thy slumber
No more shall be broken by sorrow or pain—
Soon to rise with that host which no mortal can number,
To lie down no more in that Valley again!
No more to lie down in that Valley again!
No more shall be broken by sorrow or pain—
Soon to rise with that host which no mortal can number,
To lie down no more in that Valley again!
No more to lie down in that Valley again!
“Thou art gone to the grave!” there is none can restore thee,
Or bring thee again from that Silent Abode!
But the Conqueror of Death went to dwell there before thee,
And He has prepared thee the way to thy God!
Prepared thee the way to thy Beautiful God!
Or bring thee again from that Silent Abode!
But the Conqueror of Death went to dwell there before thee,
And He has prepared thee the way to thy God!
Prepared thee the way to thy Beautiful God!
“Thou art gone to the grave!” thou art silently sleeping
A sleep which no sorrow shall ever molest;
And, in longing for which, my poor heart now is keeping
This silent lament in its grave in my breast!
Like Shelley for Keats, in its grave in my breast!
A sleep which no sorrow shall ever molest;
And, in longing for which, my poor heart now is keeping
This silent lament in its grave in my breast!
Like Shelley for Keats, in its grave in my breast!
“Thou art gone to the grave!” let the dark Weeping Willow
Bend over thy grave where thy beauty was laid!
While thy form, thus reclined on the earth for its pillow,
Shall live in the Spring-flowers which bloom at thy head—
To feed the young Butterflies born at thy head.
Bend over thy grave where thy beauty was laid!
While thy form, thus reclined on the earth for its pillow,
Shall live in the Spring-flowers which bloom at thy head—
To feed the young Butterflies born at thy head.
31
“Thou art gone to the grave!” where the Violets are springing,
And feeding upon thee above the damp sod,
Now thy Pandemos mourns, while thy spirit is singing,
And drinking delight from the Fountains of God—
With thine Ullalume lost from the Fountains of God.
And feeding upon thee above the damp sod,
Now thy Pandemos mourns, while thy spirit is singing,
And drinking delight from the Fountains of God—
With thine Ullalume lost from the Fountains of God.
Villa Allegra, Ga.
| Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights | |