 | The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien |  |
LOSS.
Stretched silver-spun the spider's nets;
The quivering sky was white with fire;
The blackbird's scarlet epaulettes
Reddened the hemlock's topmost spire.
The quivering sky was white with fire;
The blackbird's scarlet epaulettes
Reddened the hemlock's topmost spire.
The mountain, in his purple cloak,
His feet with misty vapors wet,
Lay dreamily, and seemed to smoke
All day his giant calumet.
His feet with misty vapors wet,
Lay dreamily, and seemed to smoke
All day his giant calumet.
From farm-house bells the noonday rung;
The teams that ploughed the furrows stopped;
The ox refreshed his lolling tongue,
And brows were wiped and spades were dropped;
The teams that ploughed the furrows stopped;
The ox refreshed his lolling tongue,
And brows were wiped and spades were dropped;
And down the field the mowers stepped,
With burning brows and figures lithe,
As in their brawny hands they swept
From side to side the hissing scythe;
With burning brows and figures lithe,
As in their brawny hands they swept
From side to side the hissing scythe;
Till sudden ceased the noonday task,
The scythes 'mid swaths of grass lay still,
As girls with can and cider-flask
Came romping gayly down the hill.
The scythes 'mid swaths of grass lay still,
As girls with can and cider-flask
Came romping gayly down the hill.
40
And over all there swept a stream
Of subtile music, felt, not heard,
As when one conjures in a dream
The distant singing of a bird.
Of subtile music, felt, not heard,
As when one conjures in a dream
The distant singing of a bird.
I drank the glory of the scene,
Its autumn splendor fired my veins;
The woods were like an Indian queen
Who gazed upon her old domains.
Its autumn splendor fired my veins;
The woods were like an Indian queen
Who gazed upon her old domains.
And ah! methought I heard a sigh
Come softly through her leafy lips;
A mourning over days gone by,
That were before the white man's ships.
Come softly through her leafy lips;
A mourning over days gone by,
That were before the white man's ships.
And so I came to think on Loss,—
I never much could think on Gain;
A poet oft will woo a cross
On whom a crown is pressed in vain.
I never much could think on Gain;
A poet oft will woo a cross
On whom a crown is pressed in vain.
I came to think—I know not how,
Perchance through sense of Indian wrong—
Of losses of my own, that now
Broke for the first time into song;—
Perchance through sense of Indian wrong—
Of losses of my own, that now
Broke for the first time into song;—
A fluttering strain of feeble words
That scarcely dared to leave my breast;
But like a brood of fledgling birds
Kept hovering round their natal nest.
That scarcely dared to leave my breast;
But like a brood of fledgling birds
Kept hovering round their natal nest.
‘O loss!’ I sang,—‘O early loss!
O blight that nipped the buds of spring!
O spell that turned the gold to dross!
O steel that clipped the untried wing!
O blight that nipped the buds of spring!
O spell that turned the gold to dross!
O steel that clipped the untried wing!
41
‘I mourn all days, as sorrows he
Whom once they called a merchant prince
Over the ships he sent to sea,
And never, never heard of since.
Whom once they called a merchant prince
Over the ships he sent to sea,
And never, never heard of since.
‘To ye, O woods, the annual May
Restores the leaves ye lost before;
The tide that now forsakes the bay
This night will wash the widowed shore.
Restores the leaves ye lost before;
The tide that now forsakes the bay
This night will wash the widowed shore.
‘But I shall never see again
The shape that smiled upon my youth;
A mist of sorrow veils my brain,
And dimly looms the light of truth.
The shape that smiled upon my youth;
A mist of sorrow veils my brain,
And dimly looms the light of truth.
‘She faded, fading woods, like you!
And fleeting shone with sweeter grace;
And as she died, the colors grew
To softer splendor in her face.
And fleeting shone with sweeter grace;
And as she died, the colors grew
To softer splendor in her face.
‘Until one day the hectic flush
Was veiled with death's eternal snow;
She swept from earth amid a hush,
And I was left alone below!’
Was veiled with death's eternal snow;
She swept from earth amid a hush,
And I was left alone below!’
While thus I moaned I heard a peal
Of laughter through the meadows flow;
I saw the farm-boys at their meal,—
I saw the cider circling go.
Of laughter through the meadows flow;
I saw the farm-boys at their meal,—
I saw the cider circling go.
And still the mountain calmly slept,
His feet with valley vapors wet;
And slowly circling upward crept
The smoke from out his calumet.
His feet with valley vapors wet;
And slowly circling upward crept
The smoke from out his calumet.
42
Mine was the sole discordant breath
That marred this dream of peace below.
‘O God!’ I cried, ‘give, give me death,
Or give me grace to bear thy blow!’
That marred this dream of peace below.
‘O God!’ I cried, ‘give, give me death,
Or give me grace to bear thy blow!’
| The poems and stories of Fitz-James O'Brien | |