 | Poems by Edward C. Pinkney |  |
21
LINES
FROM THE PORT FOLIO OF H---.
I.
We met upon the world's wide face,
When each of us was young—
We parted soon, and to her place
A darker spirit sprung;
A feeling such as must have stirred
The Roman's bosom when he heard,
Beneath the trembling ground,
The God, his genius, marching forth
From the old city of his mirth,
To lively music's sound.
When each of us was young—
We parted soon, and to her place
A darker spirit sprung;
A feeling such as must have stirred
The Roman's bosom when he heard,
Beneath the trembling ground,
The God, his genius, marching forth
From the old city of his mirth,
To lively music's sound.
A sense it was, that I could see
The angel leave my side—
That thenceforth my prosperity
Must be a falling tide;
A strange and omnious belief,
That in spring-time the yellow leaf
Had fallen on my hours;
And that all hope must be most vain,
Of finding on my path again,
Its former, vanished flowers.
The angel leave my side—
That thenceforth my prosperity
Must be a falling tide;
A strange and omnious belief,
That in spring-time the yellow leaf
Had fallen on my hours;
And that all hope must be most vain,
Of finding on my path again,
Its former, vanished flowers.
22
But thou, the idol of my few
And fleeting better days—
The light that cheered when life was new
My being with its rays—
And though, alas!—its joy be gone,
Art yet, like tomb-lamps, shining on
The phantoms of my mind—
The memories of many a dream
Floating on thought's fantastic stream,
Like storm-clouds on the wind!
And fleeting better days—
The light that cheered when life was new
My being with its rays—
And though, alas!—its joy be gone,
Art yet, like tomb-lamps, shining on
The phantoms of my mind—
The memories of many a dream
Floating on thought's fantastic stream,
Like storm-clouds on the wind!
Is thy life but the wayward child
Of fever in the heart,
In part a crowd of fancies wild,
Of ill-made efforts part?
Are such accurst familiars thine,
As by thee were made early mine?
And is it as with me—
Doth hope in birthless ashes lie,
And seems the sun an hostile eye
Thy pains well-pleased to see?
Of fever in the heart,
In part a crowd of fancies wild,
Of ill-made efforts part?
Are such accurst familiars thine,
As by thee were made early mine?
And is it as with me—
Doth hope in birthless ashes lie,
And seems the sun an hostile eye
Thy pains well-pleased to see?
I trust, not so:—though thou hast been
An evil star to mine,
Let all of good the world has seen
Hang over upon thine.
May thy suns those of summer be,
And time show as one joy to thee,
Like thine own nature pure:
Thou didst but rouse, within my breast,
The sleeping devils from a rest,
That could not long endure.
An evil star to mine,
Let all of good the world has seen
Hang over upon thine.
May thy suns those of summer be,
And time show as one joy to thee,
Like thine own nature pure:
Thou didst but rouse, within my breast,
The sleeping devils from a rest,
That could not long endure.
23
The firstlings of my simple song
Were offered to thy name:
Again the altar, idle long,
In worship rears its flame.
My sacrifice of sullen years,
My many hecatombs of tears,
No happier hours recall—
Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore
To one who ever loved thee more
Than fickle fortune's all.
Were offered to thy name:
Again the altar, idle long,
In worship rears its flame.
My sacrifice of sullen years,
My many hecatombs of tears,
No happier hours recall—
Yet may thy wandering thoughts restore
To one who ever loved thee more
Than fickle fortune's all.
And now, farewell!—and although here
Men hate the source of pain,
I hold these and thy follies dear,
Nor of thy faults complain.
For my misused and blighted powers,
My waste of miserable hours,
I will accuse thee not:—
The fool who could from self depart,
And take for fate one human heart,
Deserved no better lot.
Men hate the source of pain,
I hold these and thy follies dear,
Nor of thy faults complain.
For my misused and blighted powers,
My waste of miserable hours,
I will accuse thee not:—
The fool who could from self depart,
And take for fate one human heart,
Deserved no better lot.
I reck of mine the less, because
In wiser moods I feel
A doubtful question of its cause,
And nature, on me steal—
An ancient notion, that time flings
Our pains and pleasures from his wings
With much equality—
And that, in reason, happiness
Both of accession and decrease
Incapable must be.
In wiser moods I feel
A doubtful question of its cause,
And nature, on me steal—
An ancient notion, that time flings
Our pains and pleasures from his wings
With much equality—
And that, in reason, happiness
Both of accession and decrease
Incapable must be.
| Poems by Edward C. Pinkney | |