University of Virginia Library

I will not shame his brightness! He will blaze
For other seasons. He will bring their fruits,
And cheer to song the throats of merry birds,
And ripen yellow harvests for the race,
In multitudinous lands; and I shall lose
These joys, which never fail'd till now to gladden
This weary heart of mine! But now their sweets
Bring me no hope; nor, with their sweets denied,
Do I feel loss. 'Twas in her love that grew
The season's bounty—and the glorious smile
That bless'd me in the rising of the sun,
And cheer'd me in the music of the bird,
And charm'd me in the beauty of the flower,
And taught me, in the fragrance-blessing earth,
The way to countless blessings, which no more
I find in earth or sky, in song of birds,
Beauty in flowers, or glory in the day!
My day is night: my prayer is for that sleep
That sees no more the day from which is gone
The soul's one beauty, giving charm to all!
Nor is the night which now approacheth fast—
Through which my feet must go—the final night,
Whose coming makes men falter, with a fear
That, in the unknown, still dreads the worst of knowledge—
Without its welcoming light! I have o'ercome
The natural fears of death,—which, in our youth,
Must ever be a Terror! Doubt and dread
Grow passive, in that weariness of soul
When life maintains no hope; and death puts on
The aspect of a friend to him who feels
How toilsome and how endless is the day
Consumed without a quest, through barren realms
That Love hath ceased to brighten with his beams,
Or freshen with his flowers. My woes, that brought
Despair for one dread season, and dismay
That still o'erwhelms my heart, hath also taught
Elsewhere to seek the Comforter! And Fear,
That found on earth but Tyranny, beyond,
Looks upward for protection. He whom Power
Drives from the shelter of the Throne, finds strength
In the more steadfast Altar; and the man,
Who knew no safety with his kindred fellow,
Soon finds the need of Him, who, throned apart,
Repairs the wretched sorrows of the race,—
Rebukes the injustice—from the oppressor plucks
The scourge—and to the victim, soon or late,
Atones for the worst sufferings born on earth.
Oh! Death shall be no pang, though sharp his blow;—
And loss of life, however glad before
In bloom and blossom, bring no sorrow now!

And yet, to tread that passage of thick gloom
Into the world of doubt! To take that plunge,
From consciousness, to the bewildering change
Which may be woe, or apathy still worse,
In loss of that large consciousness, whose hope
Clings to the soul as to its only life,
Secure in joyous certainty of wings,—
High powers, that yield not to the outward pressure,
And, with the will, ne'er-pausing progress keep
To the mind's best achievements! Oh! that doubt!—
Whether, in passage from the state we know,
We rise elsewhere erect, or grow to nothing;
Never know waking—with one pang lose feeling;
Lose, with the sky and earth, all sense and seeing—
The all that we have lived for—while the loved one,
Most precious to the heart of all affections,
Lies silently beside us, and we know not!—
Hush'd each divinest instinct that, while living,
Taught us, unseen, of the approaching footstep,
And, with a breath, infusing still the zephyr,
Quicken'd each pulse within the trembling bosom
With intimations of that precious spirit
So natural to our own. Oh! my Francesca!
Where glid'st thou?—through what region, breathing glory—
Through what sweet gardens of delight and treasure,—
That I behold thee not?—and drink no promise
Of what awaits me in the world hereafter,
From the sweet whispers of thy passing spirit,
Stealing beside me? Thou art freed the struggle,
And, in the unlimited province of thy wing,
Why fly'st thou far?—why bring'st me no sweet tidings
To strengthen the dear hope that gave us courage
When we were torn asunder—made us fearless
Of all the tyrant might decree against us—
Assured of that blest future which his power
Might never enter? Wert thou nigh—about me—
Infusing, with thy sweetness, the damp vapor
That chills this gloomy dungeon—I had known it!
My soul had felt thy presence, as one gathers
The scent of flowers that grow in foreign gardens,
Whose blooms he doth not see! Didst thou look on me,
I should not droop this hour. Oh! wouldst thou speak,
I should not feel this dungeon—dread this death—
That, in thy absence from my spirit now—
Thine freed—takes on a shape of during darkness,
That never hopes a dawn! Who comes?