University of Virginia Library

The wind is high, the tempest is abroad!
Thou hear'st it not, my brother! feel'st no more
Its rude assaultings; thou who erst could breast
The shock of storms and wind with fearless front,
That almost mocked the peril others shrunk from;
Alas! perchance, thence earlier overpowered,
Suddenly prostrate, while the selfish souls
That cautious calculate the doubtful risk,
Live on—live long! whilst thou, beloved!
Art in that lowly house, whereto my thought
So often turns, sickening at all beside,
And emulous of thy mysterious rest,
Whate'er it be!
The tempest rages on,
And not unwelcomely; afar it keeps
The ceremonious guest, the officious friend,
Both with one aim to banish from thy tomb
The faithful thought, or lead it, truant-like,
To lose itself amid the trivial themes
And desultory movements of the hour.
But now alone, and still, and serious here,
'Tis sweet, how sad soe'er, it still is sweet
To be together, love! amid these gusts,
(Which have been likened to a spirit's voice,
With reason, though with fancy,) to persuade me,
I feel thy presence and I hear thy tones.
But be this as it may, I am with THEE!
How often with thee in the communings
Of secret mind, when all around suppose me
Intent on other matter, he alone,
The Master Spirit, he alone can know,
Or tell, perhaps, to thine.
Thou who art ever with me, like a God,
Unseen, yet omnipresent, witness, Charles,
How all unwillingly I turn my mind
From musing on thy fate, e'en at the call
Of holy duty; seems it holier duty,
And primal, too—at least, my sickly spirit
So dreams of it—to linger on those hours,
Those brief but bitter hours, thy latest!
Yet spare me, Memory, spare th' appalling image
Of that dear face, such as in death I saw it,
And give it back as it was wont to be,
Ruddy with health and life. Spare the thought
Of that loved voice, now faint and tremulous,
Now with delirium wild! Canst thou not show him
As for so many years he stood before me?
Why turn tormentor, and thus rack my fancy
With visions but of anguish?

The spring returned, but not to thee returned!
And summer came—thy summer never came!
And next the fatal season follows on
That took thee from us; never more by me
That season can be witnessed but with woe!
The reaper's song shall wake no glad response,
And the bright glories of the harvest moon
Shine dimly through my tears. Would I could sleep
Until the vintage shall be gathered in!
“The joyous vintage”—so they name it.

The sun smiles on as ever, and the skies
With answering looks of clear and cheering hues
Seem in contempt to hold the mourner's heart,
For Nature mourns with no one. Yet methought
Of late it did; for see, our leaves have fallen,
Have fallen like thee, my brother, to the ground,
Though not like thee, untimely. They have seen
Their summer through; nor mocked the gazer's hope;
Whilst thou, beloved!—
Yet yon little tree
Retains its mite of foliage, while the large
And loftier ones that skirt our garden round
Have lost their honors; yonder slender stem
Still holds its three small twigs toward the sun,
And twinkles its few leaves amid the breeze.
It is the tree; thou planted it when thy health
Was firm, thine arm was strong, thy hopes were high,
And now, how sickens it thy sister's heart,
To think the verdure of that little tree
Outlasted thine!