 | Poems by William Wetmore Story |  |
223
VETERIS VESTIGIA FLAMMÆ.
Long years have gone, and down their slope
From that high crest of Youth and Hope
Life hath flowed on with downward range
Through many a devious chance and change,
And Childish Innocence has died,
And Joy, that once was eager-eyed,
Grown dim of sight, and the heart's thrill,
That sent the quick blood through my veins
At some poor nothing, now is still
Even to ambition's strains.
From that high crest of Youth and Hope
Life hath flowed on with downward range
Through many a devious chance and change,
And Childish Innocence has died,
And Joy, that once was eager-eyed,
Grown dim of sight, and the heart's thrill,
That sent the quick blood through my veins
At some poor nothing, now is still
Even to ambition's strains.
The Rose has lost its odors rare
Since we in childhood breathed it there
On those high hills so far away;
I know not what it is has gone.
Now I return to-day;
But all the world has lost the tone
It had of yore, though wearily
It still goes on.
Since we in childhood breathed it there
On those high hills so far away;
I know not what it is has gone.
Now I return to-day;
But all the world has lost the tone
It had of yore, though wearily
It still goes on.
'T is not your fault, O perfect sky,
Across whose silent deeps serene
The white clouds sail so silently;
'T is not your fault, O murmurous wood,
Within whose leafy solitude
Of ever waving green
A whisper runs, whose fragrant sward
With myriad bright-eyed flowers is starred.
Ah no!—ye all are still as fair
As in those happy days ye were;
And yet in my unhappy mood,
So deeply is my soul subdued,
I cannot take of all your joy
My willing share.
Across whose silent deeps serene
The white clouds sail so silently;
'T is not your fault, O murmurous wood,
Within whose leafy solitude
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A whisper runs, whose fragrant sward
With myriad bright-eyed flowers is starred.
Ah no!—ye all are still as fair
As in those happy days ye were;
And yet in my unhappy mood,
So deeply is my soul subdued,
I cannot take of all your joy
My willing share.
Ah Nature, sympathetic friend,
What more hast thou to us to lend
Than what to thee we give?
Ours is the joy that makes thee glad—
The sorrow ours that makes thee sad—
Our life you only live.
And so to me to-day you bring
A sense of sweet remembering,
A craving dim and vague and sad,
That will not let my heart be glad
Despite thy beauty—will not set
My spirit free from out its net,
And turns my smile into a sigh
After the days gone by.
What more hast thou to us to lend
Than what to thee we give?
Ours is the joy that makes thee glad—
The sorrow ours that makes thee sad—
Our life you only live.
And so to me to-day you bring
A sense of sweet remembering,
A craving dim and vague and sad,
That will not let my heart be glad
Despite thy beauty—will not set
My spirit free from out its net,
And turns my smile into a sigh
After the days gone by.
You plague me with a far refrain;
You haunt me with an inner pain,
A sense of something lost, that seems
To reach me like some far-off strain
Borne to me from the land of dreams;
A sweet, a sad, a faint refrain
That only sings,—Come back, come back,
Come back again!
Take all I have and give me back
The lost again!
You haunt me with an inner pain,
A sense of something lost, that seems
To reach me like some far-off strain
Borne to me from the land of dreams;
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That only sings,—Come back, come back,
Come back again!
Take all I have and give me back
The lost again!
Come back? Ah no! What once was joy,
What still to dream is bliss,
Near, my changed spirit would annoy;
Its charm in distance is.
The touch that from Youth's high-strung harp
Ecstatic music wings
Would make but discord harsh and sharp
On age's slackened strings.
No! far and softened let them lie—
Those dreams of what has been,
By the faint haze of memory
Transfigured and serene.
What still to dream is bliss,
Near, my changed spirit would annoy;
Its charm in distance is.
The touch that from Youth's high-strung harp
Ecstatic music wings
Would make but discord harsh and sharp
On age's slackened strings.
No! far and softened let them lie—
Those dreams of what has been,
By the faint haze of memory
Transfigured and serene.
No power can take me by the hand
And lead me where I fain would go—
Into that dear and dream-like land.
Ah no! ah no!—
Time's silent stream runs ever down
With unreturning flow,
And what we once have lived, loved, known,
Is past to live, love, know.
Vain is our longing, our regret,
Our joy and our despair;
The gates are shut and will not let
Our spirits backward fare.
And lead me where I fain would go—
Into that dear and dream-like land.
Ah no! ah no!—
Time's silent stream runs ever down
With unreturning flow,
And what we once have lived, loved, known,
Is past to live, love, know.
Vain is our longing, our regret,
Our joy and our despair;
The gates are shut and will not let
Our spirits backward fare.
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Yet, as I speak, what power is this,
That with an odor rare
Hath had the charm my soul to bear
Through hidden secret galleries,
And searching swift the deep abyss
Of inner Life—the tortuous maze
Of tangled memories—brought to me
The lost of early days?
That with an odor rare
Hath had the charm my soul to bear
Through hidden secret galleries,
And searching swift the deep abyss
Of inner Life—the tortuous maze
Of tangled memories—brought to me
The lost of early days?
The simple odor of a flower
That I have plucked by chance—
So slight a thing has had the power
My being to entrance.
The present like a slough is shed,
And once again I hear
That voice that has been mute and dead
So many a dreary year;
Again those eyes look into mine,
Again a morning light
Breaks over that dear face of thine
Of childish frank delight—
Almost I seem to touch thy hand!—
Ah no! not that!—ah no!
There breaks the bridge, on which I stand—
Beyond I cannot go—
The voice, the smile, the vision fine,
Those for a moment's space were mine,
Thus far could dreams deceive;
But not the touch,—the human hand
That nothing ere will give.
That I have plucked by chance—
So slight a thing has had the power
My being to entrance.
The present like a slough is shed,
And once again I hear
That voice that has been mute and dead
So many a dreary year;
Again those eyes look into mine,
Again a morning light
Breaks over that dear face of thine
Of childish frank delight—
Almost I seem to touch thy hand!—
Ah no! not that!—ah no!
There breaks the bridge, on which I stand—
Beyond I cannot go—
The voice, the smile, the vision fine,
Those for a moment's space were mine,
Thus far could dreams deceive;
But not the touch,—the human hand
That nothing ere will give.
| Poems by William Wetmore Story | |