 | [Poems by Halleck in] Fitz-Greene Halleck : An Early Knickerbocker Wit and Poet |  |
The Discarded
“No doubt, she was right in rejecting my suit;
But why did she kick me down stairs?”—
Ballad
But why did she kick me down stairs?”—
Ballad
I live, as lives a withered bough,
Blossomless, leafless, and alone;
There are none left to love me now,
Or shed one tear when I am gone.
Blossomless, leafless, and alone;
There are none left to love me now,
Or shed one tear when I am gone.
When I am gone—no matter where;
I dread no other world but this;
To leave it is my only prayer,
That hope my only happiness.
I dread no other world but this;
To leave it is my only prayer,
That hope my only happiness.
431
For I am weary of it—black
Are sun and stars and sky to me;
And my own thoughts are made the rack
That wrings my nerves in agony.
Are sun and stars and sky to me;
And my own thoughts are made the rack
That wrings my nerves in agony.
There's not a wretched one that lives,
And loathes like me the light of day;
And I shall bless the hour that gives
My body to its kindred clay.
And loathes like me the light of day;
And I shall bless the hour that gives
My body to its kindred clay.
And yet at times, I know not why,
There comes a foolish, feverish thought,
Of where these shrivelled limbs shall lie,
And where this dead, cold flesh shall rot—
There comes a foolish, feverish thought,
Of where these shrivelled limbs shall lie,
And where this dead, cold flesh shall rot—
When the quick throbbing of my brain
That now is maddening me is o'er,
And the hot fire in each swoln [sic] vein
Is quench'd at last to burn no more.
That now is maddening me is o'er,
And the hot fire in each swoln [sic] vein
Is quench'd at last to burn no more.
And then I shudder at the tone
Of my heart's hymn and seem to hear
The shrieking of my dying groan,
The rattling clod upon my bier;
Of my heart's hymn and seem to hear
The shrieking of my dying groan,
The rattling clod upon my bier;
And feel the pang which he who dies
Welcomes—the pang which gives me rest,
Ere the lead-weights are on my eyes,
Or the white shroud is on my breast;
Welcomes—the pang which gives me rest,
Ere the lead-weights are on my eyes,
Or the white shroud is on my breast;
When the death-foam is on my lip,
And the death-dews are in my hair,
And my clinch'd fingers in the grip
Of agony, are clinging there!
And the death-dews are in my hair,
And my clinch'd fingers in the grip
Of agony, are clinging there!
And then I feel how sad it is
To know there's none my fate to weep,
Print on my lip the unanswered kiss,
Or close my eyes in their last sleep.
To know there's none my fate to weep,
Print on my lip the unanswered kiss,
Or close my eyes in their last sleep.
For all unheard the damp earth flung
Upon my coffin-lid must be;
By strangers will the bell be rung,
That tolls in mockery for me.
Upon my coffin-lid must be;
By strangers will the bell be rung,
That tolls in mockery for me.
And he who tolls will laugh the while,
And whistle his light song of mirth;
And he who digs my grave will smile
As senseless as its senseless earth.
And whistle his light song of mirth;
And he who digs my grave will smile
As senseless as its senseless earth.
432
Some dark-robed priest, perhaps, will pray
Beside my bier because he must;
And some hoarse voices sing, or say,
The unfeeling adage “Dust to dust.”
Beside my bier because he must;
And some hoarse voices sing, or say,
The unfeeling adage “Dust to dust.”
And if perchance I leave behind
Enough of wordly pelf to raise
A marble tomb, my name, enshrined
In prodigality of praise,
Enough of wordly pelf to raise
A marble tomb, my name, enshrined
In prodigality of praise,
May meet the passing stranger's eye;
A sculptor's monument and pride,
Telling that man was born to die,
And I—was born, and lived, and died.
A sculptor's monument and pride,
Telling that man was born to die,
And I—was born, and lived, and died.
And men will trample on my grave,
And keep the grass from growing there,
And not even one poor flower will wave
Above me in the summer air;
And keep the grass from growing there,
And not even one poor flower will wave
Above me in the summer air;
For there are none to plant it—none
To water it with patient tears;
My cradle-watchers, they are gone;
The monitors of my young years
To water it with patient tears;
My cradle-watchers, they are gone;
The monitors of my young years
Are silent now. There was a time—
It is a long, long time ago—
When in a pure and holy clime
I breathed—and if the clouds of woe
It is a long, long time ago—
When in a pure and holy clime
I breathed—and if the clouds of woe
Dimm'd the blue heaven of my thought,
Like summer storms they flitted by,
And when they vanish'd, there were wrought
Bright rainbows in the twilight sky,
Like summer storms they flitted by,
And when they vanish'd, there were wrought
Bright rainbows in the twilight sky,
On which my wild gaze linger'd till
Their colours faded far away,
Those clouds—I feel their dampness still;
But the bright rainbows—where are they?
Their colours faded far away,
Those clouds—I feel their dampness still;
But the bright rainbows—where are they?
And she I loved? I must not think
Of her—“for that way madness lies!”
Boy, start that champaigne-cork—I'll drink,
And dream no more of Mary's eyes.
Of her—“for that way madness lies!”
Boy, start that champaigne-cork—I'll drink,
And dream no more of Mary's eyes.
Nov. 1821
| [Poems by Halleck in] Fitz-Greene Halleck : An Early Knickerbocker Wit and Poet | |