 | Poems by Edward C. Pinkney |  |
24
LINES
FROM THE PORT FOLIO OF H---
II.
By woods and groves the oracles
Of the old age were nursed;
To Brutus came in solitude
The spectral warning first,
When murdered Cesar's mighty shade
The sanguine homicide dismayed,
And fantasy rehearsed
The ides of March, and, not in vain,
Showed forth Philippi's penal plain.
Of the old age were nursed;
To Brutus came in solitude
The spectral warning first,
When murdered Cesar's mighty shade
The sanguine homicide dismayed,
And fantasy rehearsed
The ides of March, and, not in vain,
Showed forth Philippi's penal plain.
In loneliness I heard my hopes
Pronounce, “Let us depart!”
And saw my mind—a Marius—
Desponding o'er my heart:
The evil genius, long concealed,
To thought's keen eye itself revealed,
Unfolding like a chart,
But rolled away, and left me free
As Stoicks once aspired to be.
Pronounce, “Let us depart!”
And saw my mind—a Marius—
Desponding o'er my heart:
The evil genius, long concealed,
To thought's keen eye itself revealed,
Unfolding like a chart,
But rolled away, and left me free
As Stoicks once aspired to be.
25
It brought, thou spirit of my breast,
And Naiad of the tears,
Which have been welling coldly there,
Although unshed, for years!
It brought in kindness or in hate,
The final menaces of fate,
But prompted no base fears—
Ah, could I with ill feelings see
Aught, love, so near allied to thee?
And Naiad of the tears,
Which have been welling coldly there,
Although unshed, for years!
It brought in kindness or in hate,
The final menaces of fate,
But prompted no base fears—
Ah, could I with ill feelings see
Aught, love, so near allied to thee?
The drowsy harbinger of death,
That slumber dull and deep,
Is welcome, and I would not wake
Till thou dost join my sleep.
Life's conscious calm,—the flapping sail,—
The stagnant sea nor tide nor gale
In pleasing motion keep,—
Oppress me; and I wish release
From this to more substantial peace.
That slumber dull and deep,
Is welcome, and I would not wake
Till thou dost join my sleep.
Life's conscious calm,—the flapping sail,—
The stagnant sea nor tide nor gale
In pleasing motion keep,—
Oppress me; and I wish release
From this to more substantial peace.
Star of that sea!—the cynosure
Of magnet-passions, long!
A ceaseless apparition, and
A very ocular song!—
My skies have changed their hemisphere,
And forfeited thy radiant cheer:
Thy shadow still is strong;
And beaming darkness, follows me,
Far duskier than obscurity.
Of magnet-passions, long!
A ceaseless apparition, and
A very ocular song!—
My skies have changed their hemisphere,
And forfeited thy radiant cheer:
Thy shadow still is strong;
And beaming darkness, follows me,
Far duskier than obscurity.
Star of that sea!—its currents bear
My vessel to the bourne,
Whence neither busy voyager
Nor pilgrim may return.
Such consummation I can brook,
Yet with a fixed and lingering look,
Must anxiously discern
The far horizon, where thy rays
Surceased to light my night-like days.
My vessel to the bourne,
26
Nor pilgrim may return.
Such consummation I can brook,
Yet with a fixed and lingering look,
Must anxiously discern
The far horizon, where thy rays
Surceased to light my night-like days.
Unwise, or most unfortunate,
My way was; let the sign,
The proof of it, be simply this—
Thou art not, wert not, mine!
For 'tis the wont of chance to bless
Pursuit, if patient, with success;
And envy may repine,
That, commonly, some triumph must
Be won by every lasting lust.
My way was; let the sign,
The proof of it, be simply this—
Thou art not, wert not, mine!
For 'tis the wont of chance to bless
Pursuit, if patient, with success;
And envy may repine,
That, commonly, some triumph must
Be won by every lasting lust.
How I have lived imports not now
I am about to die,
Else I might chide thee that my life
Has been a stifled sigh:
Yes, life; for times beyond the line
Our parting traced, appear not mine,
Or of a world gone by;
And often almost would evince,
My soul had transmigrated since.
I am about to die,
Else I might chide thee that my life
Has been a stifled sigh:
Yes, life; for times beyond the line
Our parting traced, appear not mine,
Or of a world gone by;
And often almost would evince,
My soul had transmigrated since.
Pass wasted powers; alike the grave,
To which I fast go down,
Will give the joy of nothingness
To me and to renown:
Unto its careless tenants, fame
Is idle as that gilded name,
Of vanity the crown,
Helvetian hands inscribe upon
The forehead of a skeleton.
To which I fast go down,
Will give the joy of nothingness
To me and to renown:
27
Is idle as that gilded name,
Of vanity the crown,
Helvetian hands inscribe upon
The forehead of a skeleton.
List the last cadence of a lay,
That, closing as begun,
Is governed by a note of pain,
Oh, lost and worshipped one!—
None shall attend a sadder strain,
Till Memnon's statue stand again
To mourn the setting sun,—
Nor sweeter, if my numbers seem
To share the nature of their theme.
That, closing as begun,
Is governed by a note of pain,
Oh, lost and worshipped one!—
None shall attend a sadder strain,
Till Memnon's statue stand again
To mourn the setting sun,—
Nor sweeter, if my numbers seem
To share the nature of their theme.
| Poems by Edward C. Pinkney | |