 | The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark |  |
133
EARLIER POEMS.
135
THE REQUIEM.
TO THE MEMORY OF MISS ELIZA SUYDAM, who lost her life at Trenton Falls, July, 1827.
“Ah! thy brow of gladness, which once was fair—
The settled calmness of Death is there!
Thy bosom is cold, which with life was warm,
And the shroud encloses thy gentle form!”
Sutermeister.
The settled calmness of Death is there!
Thy bosom is cold, which with life was warm,
And the shroud encloses thy gentle form!”
Sutermeister.
Deep in thy dreamless sleep thou gentle one!
Ah, when may beam the glory of thy waking?
How thy brief, sinless race of life was won,
When Death the glittering spell of joy was breaking.
Hope's siren voice was in thy raptured ear:
Oh! thus hath faded all her bursting flowers;
Passed is the gladness of her visions dear,
The morning splendor of her sunny hours:
Life hath its holy morn, and thou hast flown
Ere its brief ecstasies and dreams had gone!
Ah, when may beam the glory of thy waking?
How thy brief, sinless race of life was won,
When Death the glittering spell of joy was breaking.
Hope's siren voice was in thy raptured ear:
Oh! thus hath faded all her bursting flowers;
Passed is the gladness of her visions dear,
The morning splendor of her sunny hours:
Life hath its holy morn, and thou hast flown
Ere its brief ecstasies and dreams had gone!
Tears have been wept for thee, thou faded rose,
Nipt in the joy of thy luxuriant morning,
As a sweet bird which sinks to its repose
In the pure spring, 'mid flowers and balm returning:
Lone hearts have o'er thee poured the voice of wail.
In the sad watches of the starlit even,
Deep sighs have breathed upon the passing gale.
And mournful glances have been cast to heaven.
Oh! what were they? for thou from earth had past,
Even as the dawn's calm light, too pure to last.
Nipt in the joy of thy luxuriant morning,
As a sweet bird which sinks to its repose
In the pure spring, 'mid flowers and balm returning:
136
In the sad watches of the starlit even,
Deep sighs have breathed upon the passing gale.
And mournful glances have been cast to heaven.
Oh! what were they? for thou from earth had past,
Even as the dawn's calm light, too pure to last.
Oh! life hath darkening hours when youth has flown:
Vain yearning hopes and flowers whose bloom is withered;
Deep tones of sorrow for our loved one gone,
Pearls in life's cup to the grave's bosom gathered.
Joy pours its sunlight o'er youth's rich domain,
The path of life looks bright with hopes revealing:
Pass but a transient hour—oh! look again:
The cankering mildew o'er love's wreath is stealing;
The siren's song, alas! its tones have fled.
And night-winds murmur o'er the fated dead.
Vain yearning hopes and flowers whose bloom is withered;
Deep tones of sorrow for our loved one gone,
Pearls in life's cup to the grave's bosom gathered.
Joy pours its sunlight o'er youth's rich domain,
The path of life looks bright with hopes revealing:
Pass but a transient hour—oh! look again:
The cankering mildew o'er love's wreath is stealing;
The siren's song, alas! its tones have fled.
And night-winds murmur o'er the fated dead.
Youth! now thy morning hour is glad and bright,
Birds, joyous birds, are on each opening blossom,
Earth laughs in beauty, heaven is clothed in light,
And hopes, like flowers, spring in the cheerful bosom:
How die in Time's dim lapse its buds of bliss!
How the dark storms o'ersweep its tranquil heaven,
Joy's shining wreath, rich in its loveliness.
How soon its honors to the grave are given:
Mourn not when innocence to rest hath gone,
When the pure spirit in its light hath flown.
Birds, joyous birds, are on each opening blossom,
Earth laughs in beauty, heaven is clothed in light,
And hopes, like flowers, spring in the cheerful bosom:
137
How the dark storms o'ersweep its tranquil heaven,
Joy's shining wreath, rich in its loveliness.
How soon its honors to the grave are given:
Mourn not when innocence to rest hath gone,
When the pure spirit in its light hath flown.
138
SPAIN.
Land of romance and love! such once wert thou,
When peaceful songs within thy valleys rung;
The wild wind whispered on the olive-bough,
The gentle maiden o'er the soft lute hung,
Charmed with the music flowing from her tongue;
Joy dwelt amid thy valleys far and wide,
And tranquil visions blessed the old and young:
Now in the dust is thy forgotten pride,
And Lethe's mournful waves above thy splendor glide.
When peaceful songs within thy valleys rung;
The wild wind whispered on the olive-bough,
The gentle maiden o'er the soft lute hung,
Charmed with the music flowing from her tongue;
Joy dwelt amid thy valleys far and wide,
And tranquil visions blessed the old and young:
Now in the dust is thy forgotten pride,
And Lethe's mournful waves above thy splendor glide.
Once were thy desolate plains a golden land.
Where incense wandered on the gales of spring,
Where Plenty waved her rich, voluptuous wand
O'er breezy hills and valleys blossoming:
Where Victory shouted on her purple wing!
(These were the honors of thy days gone by!)
The mantling vine its sunny wreaths would fling,
It laughed in light, beneath thy summer sky,
And tranquil loveliness bathed the blue heav'ns on high.
Where incense wandered on the gales of spring,
Where Plenty waved her rich, voluptuous wand
O'er breezy hills and valleys blossoming:
Where Victory shouted on her purple wing!
(These were the honors of thy days gone by!)
The mantling vine its sunny wreaths would fling,
139
And tranquil loveliness bathed the blue heav'ns on high.
Where hath thine eloquence and beauty flown?
Proud honor's wreath! its leaves are pale and sere;
The valiant hearts which blessed thy vales are gone,
And cringing serfs are in their places there!
The castles dark upon thy far hills rear
Their crested walls, but the brave souls have fled
Who barred their gates to stay the Moors' career:
Oh, wasted cities! ye can tell how dead
Are the faint hearts that reign those valiant souls instead!
Proud honor's wreath! its leaves are pale and sere;
The valiant hearts which blessed thy vales are gone,
And cringing serfs are in their places there!
The castles dark upon thy far hills rear
Their crested walls, but the brave souls have fled
Who barred their gates to stay the Moors' career:
Oh, wasted cities! ye can tell how dead
Are the faint hearts that reign those valiant souls instead!
But the sea changes not, the deep blue sea!
It smiles in light as when it laved thy shore,
While thy fair fields were clothed in luxury,
And Moorish bugles mingled with its roar:
Oh! yet it smiles on thee! but thou no more
Lifts up thy purple vines its shore along;
No conquering banner in thy sky may soar,
The sweet guitar has ceased thy vales among,
Where saffron-fields spread out and waving bowers up-sprung.
It smiles in light as when it laved thy shore,
While thy fair fields were clothed in luxury,
And Moorish bugles mingled with its roar:
Oh! yet it smiles on thee! but thou no more
Lifts up thy purple vines its shore along;
No conquering banner in thy sky may soar,
The sweet guitar has ceased thy vales among,
Where saffron-fields spread out and waving bowers up-sprung.
Comes there not sadness in the scentless breeze,
Where wandered once on sweet and viewless wing
The gladdening incense of the myrtle-trees,
With the sweet basil's fragrance lingering,
When the pure lavender on air of spring,
Breathed out its offering to the laughing sky,
'Mid the sweet vales and hedges blossoming?
Such were the airs that swept thine arch on high,
Mingled with trumpet-tones of echoing victory!
Where wandered once on sweet and viewless wing
140
With the sweet basil's fragrance lingering,
When the pure lavender on air of spring,
Breathed out its offering to the laughing sky,
'Mid the sweet vales and hedges blossoming?
Such were the airs that swept thine arch on high,
Mingled with trumpet-tones of echoing victory!
But chance and change have passed o'er thy fair clime:
No gentle strains amid thy bowers are heard,
No voice is murmuring in the flowery lime,
The rich, soft music of some gentle bird;
No opening blossoms by thy winds are stirred:
Thy eloquent days are past, thy lights are fled,
And if some warning voice, some prophet word,
Should bid thee wake, thy sons would choose, instead,
To sleep in glorious dust, slaves amid glorious dead!
No gentle strains amid thy bowers are heard,
No voice is murmuring in the flowery lime,
The rich, soft music of some gentle bird;
No opening blossoms by thy winds are stirred:
Thy eloquent days are past, thy lights are fled,
And if some warning voice, some prophet word,
Should bid thee wake, thy sons would choose, instead,
To sleep in glorious dust, slaves amid glorious dead!
141
THE STARS
“Ye stars, which are the poetry of heaven.”
Byron.
Byron.
Oh! who hath gazed in bliss abroad upon the evening sky,
Nor felt the presence of his God—the searching of his eye:
When twinkling in the soft, blue air the gentle starlight fell.
While in the green shades sung the brook in wild and pensive dell;
When the night bird's strain went up to heaven, like fragrance from the earth,
With many a tone of music given, sweet twilight's blended mirth?
Who hath not bowed his heart to Him who spread the joyous scene,
While filled with holy musings his raptured soul hath been;
When the moon looked out in loveliness, arrayed like gorgeous bride,
While all her bright attendants were smiling at her side;
When, like an angel's spotless robe, some pure cloud of the sky
Passed a brief instant o'er her face, and dipt in light, passed by;
142
Those pure, bright tears the heavens give, as if the blue skies wept:
When the soft winds chant their soothing strains the violet bed beside:
When in the evening air the tones of many waters glide:
Sweet brooks! whose blue veins render back the image of the sky,
As prattling on their moonlit way their bright waves glitter by:
Those are the hours which to the heart like gush of music come.
Heard in the midnight's voiceless hour amid its startled gloom!
But when the shroud of gathered clouds in autumn's pensive reign
Comes o'er the sad and chastened hills, and on the cheerless plain:
When the flowers in garden-walks lie dead, and the vine yields up its leaf,
And the gleaner to the storehouse brings his white and gathered sheaf:
Then we muse, while stars are hidden from the dark and mournful sky,
And o'er the faded breast of earth the night-wind murmurs by;
Of Hope, with all her thousand songs, her visions, and her flowers,
Which passed like starlight from the sky on swift and rosy hours!
143
VALENCIA.
Voluptuous clime! above whose joyous hills
Laughs the blue arch of a sweet southern sky,
Where sunlight streams on the free dancing rills,
And Evening wakes her pensive melody:
How oft on fragrant airs borne out on high,
Hath thrilled the sweet lute's soul-entrancing tone,
While gentle maid from Moorish balcony,
As the night-breezes murmured soft and lone,
Waved her pure lily hand to her own chosen one!
Laughs the blue arch of a sweet southern sky,
Where sunlight streams on the free dancing rills,
And Evening wakes her pensive melody:
How oft on fragrant airs borne out on high,
Hath thrilled the sweet lute's soul-entrancing tone,
While gentle maid from Moorish balcony,
As the night-breezes murmured soft and lone,
Waved her pure lily hand to her own chosen one!
Soft breezy whispers in the myrtle-grove,
Strains rich and gladsome as the scene around,
Where countless warbles lift the voice of love,
And breathing flowers enthral the verdant ground:
Oh, in thy peerless beauty there is found
A dream of gladness, like a lay of spring,
When sparkling streams to the far ocean bound:
Where gentle wild-birds dance on golden wing,
And on the dim-seen hills fresh woods are blossoming!
Strains rich and gladsome as the scene around,
Where countless warbles lift the voice of love,
And breathing flowers enthral the verdant ground:
Oh, in thy peerless beauty there is found
A dream of gladness, like a lay of spring,
When sparkling streams to the far ocean bound:
144
And on the dim-seen hills fresh woods are blossoming!
Now leaps the sailor's heart, where from thy bowers
Sweet floods of fragrance o'er the dancing wave
Come like the dream of Youth's remembered hours,
When Hope her visions to his spirit gave;
E'en the blue waters thy fresh shores that lave,
A voice of living gladness raised on high:
Oh! could those shores but nurse the free and brave,
That Freedom's shout might thrill beneath thy sky,
Trembling amid those hills whose beauty ne'er may die!
Sweet floods of fragrance o'er the dancing wave
Come like the dream of Youth's remembered hours,
When Hope her visions to his spirit gave;
E'en the blue waters thy fresh shores that lave,
A voice of living gladness raised on high:
Oh! could those shores but nurse the free and brave,
That Freedom's shout might thrill beneath thy sky,
Trembling amid those hills whose beauty ne'er may die!
The founts still murmur in the citron grove,
The whispering almond charms the listening ear;
The orange-bowers breathe of the haunts of love,
And seem to murmur, “Paradise is here!”
All to the eye is beautiful! draw near:
Hark to the echoes of the convent bell:
Here Superstition holds her reign of fear,
That clanging peal is Freedom's mournful knell!
Gone is the sunny past: its glories, who may tell?
The whispering almond charms the listening ear;
The orange-bowers breathe of the haunts of love,
And seem to murmur, “Paradise is here!”
All to the eye is beautiful! draw near:
Hark to the echoes of the convent bell:
Here Superstition holds her reign of fear,
That clanging peal is Freedom's mournful knell!
Gone is the sunny past: its glories, who may tell?
145
Thus hath Time come upon his dusky wing,
The joys that bloomed where flowers are blooming still,
Passed as rich sunlight from the bowers of spring,
As a sweet blossom which the night-winds chill!
There is a tale in every chanting rill,
For nature smiles as when in days gone by
The shouts of triumph rang on breezy hill,
And gorgeous banners trembled in the sky,
Floating like spotless fame o'er the dim turrets high!
The joys that bloomed where flowers are blooming still,
Passed as rich sunlight from the bowers of spring,
As a sweet blossom which the night-winds chill!
There is a tale in every chanting rill,
For nature smiles as when in days gone by
The shouts of triumph rang on breezy hill,
And gorgeous banners trembled in the sky,
Floating like spotless fame o'er the dim turrets high!
But the true hearts are dead which once were thine:
The mournful cypress o'er the marble urn
Shakes down its faded glories—the green vine
Roams where the festal beacon-lamp should burn
On the dusk battlement: oh, may ne'er return
The mighty splendors which were once thine own?
A mournful truth it has been thine to learn:
That false religion rears its hated throne
Among the verdant groves above thy buried gone!
The mournful cypress o'er the marble urn
Shakes down its faded glories—the green vine
Roams where the festal beacon-lamp should burn
On the dusk battlement: oh, may ne'er return
The mighty splendors which were once thine own?
A mournful truth it has been thine to learn:
That false religion rears its hated throne
Among the verdant groves above thy buried gone!
146
TO THE MISSISSIPPI.
Thine is a troubled stream!
Born in the darkness of the lonely woods,
Where scarce from the bright sun a transient gleam
Streams through their arcades on thy solitudes;
But thy deep waves rush onward to the sea,
Meeting at intervals the day's broad light,
Save where the cypress-boughs o'ershadow thee,
And thy dim course is through their cloudy night.
Born in the darkness of the lonely woods,
Where scarce from the bright sun a transient gleam
Streams through their arcades on thy solitudes;
But thy deep waves rush onward to the sea,
Meeting at intervals the day's broad light,
Save where the cypress-boughs o'ershadow thee,
And thy dim course is through their cloudy night.
Such is the tide of life:
Shadows and sunlight tremble on its wave;
Soft gleams of pleasure and a cloud of strife
Mark our dim pathway to the silent grave;
Joy is our lot in youth, and Hope's blithe voice
Pours its sweet song where'er our footsteps be;
Flowers that soon wither bid the heart rejoice,
Then Time's wave mingles with Eternity!
Shadows and sunlight tremble on its wave;
Soft gleams of pleasure and a cloud of strife
Mark our dim pathway to the silent grave;
Joy is our lot in youth, and Hope's blithe voice
Pours its sweet song where'er our footsteps be;
Flowers that soon wither bid the heart rejoice,
Then Time's wave mingles with Eternity!
147
LINES,
WRITTEN AT AN UNKNOWN GRAVE.
“I know not how, but standing thus by thee,
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
Thou tomb! and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind!”
Byron.
It seems as if I had thine inmate known,
Thou tomb! and other days come back on me
With recollected music, though the tone
Is changed and solemn, like the cloudy groan
Of dying thunder on the distant wind!”
Byron.
A mournful tone the night-air brings above this lonely tomb,
Like thoughts of fair and faded things amid life's changeful gloom;
Deep shadows of the past are here! and Fancy wanders back
When joy woke in this mould'ring breast, now passed from life's dim track:
When hopes made glad his spirit here, as the pure summer-rain
Pours its sweet influence on the earth, with all her flowery train,
While buds are tossing in the breeze beneath a deep-blue sky,
And Pleasure's chant was in his ear, ere he had gone to die!
Like thoughts of fair and faded things amid life's changeful gloom;
Deep shadows of the past are here! and Fancy wanders back
When joy woke in this mould'ring breast, now passed from life's dim track:
When hopes made glad his spirit here, as the pure summer-rain
Pours its sweet influence on the earth, with all her flowery train,
148
And Pleasure's chant was in his ear, ere he had gone to die!
Youth, too, was his, its morning time, its sunlight for his brow,
Its phantoms shone for him to chase in giddy round, but now;
Perchance, the glee of his young heart, the glancing of his eye,
Hath been upon another shore, beneath a brighter sky;
The night-tones have no tale to tell, no history to unfold;
The tall, sere grass that waves alone in sadness o'er his mould:
These speak not—deep in dreamless rest the peaceful sleeper lies,
There is no pang to rend his heart, no grief to dim his eyes.
Its phantoms shone for him to chase in giddy round, but now;
Perchance, the glee of his young heart, the glancing of his eye,
Hath been upon another shore, beneath a brighter sky;
The night-tones have no tale to tell, no history to unfold;
The tall, sere grass that waves alone in sadness o'er his mould:
These speak not—deep in dreamless rest the peaceful sleeper lies,
There is no pang to rend his heart, no grief to dim his eyes.
Perchance in halcyon hours of youth a transient dream of love
Came to his breast, while earth was joy and heaven was light above,
When his soul was filled with gladsome thought, and in idolatry
He bowed him to that holy shrine which in our youth we see:
A star above life's troubled scene, a gleam upon its wave,
A ray whose light is soon eclipsed in the darkness of the grave;
A song which, like the mirthful tone of wild-birds on the wing,
Dies when the dewy eventide enshrouds a sky of spring!
Came to his breast, while earth was joy and heaven was light above,
When his soul was filled with gladsome thought, and in idolatry
He bowed him to that holy shrine which in our youth we see:
149
A ray whose light is soon eclipsed in the darkness of the grave;
A song which, like the mirthful tone of wild-birds on the wing,
Dies when the dewy eventide enshrouds a sky of spring!
I know but this, Death's shadow dwells upon his deep sealed eye;
Vainly earth laughs in joy for him, or the blue summer-sky;
The gales may tell where flowers repose, or where the young buds swell:
Their soft chant may not enter here within this voiceless cell;
Flowers, dreams, and grief, alike are past, and why should man reply,
When life is but a wilderness whose promise soon may die?
'T is but a home where all must rest—change which to all must come—
A curtain which o'er ALL must spread its deep, o'ershadowing gloom!
Vainly earth laughs in joy for him, or the blue summer-sky;
The gales may tell where flowers repose, or where the young buds swell:
Their soft chant may not enter here within this voiceless cell;
Flowers, dreams, and grief, alike are past, and why should man reply,
When life is but a wilderness whose promise soon may die?
'T is but a home where all must rest—change which to all must come—
A curtain which o'er ALL must spread its deep, o'ershadowing gloom!
The wail of the expiring year is in the deep brown woods,
The leaf is borne upon the stream in its dark solitudes;
The clouds are on the chastened hills, and floods are wild and high;
The mournful pall is lingering where faded blossoms lie!
Then here should monitory thoughts be treasured in the breast,
That life is but a changeful hour, and death a holy rest,
Where grief's loud wail or bursting tears ne'er to its stillness come,
But calmness reigns within its hall, wrapt in its shrouded home!
The leaf is borne upon the stream in its dark solitudes;
150
The mournful pall is lingering where faded blossoms lie!
Then here should monitory thoughts be treasured in the breast,
That life is but a changeful hour, and death a holy rest,
Where grief's loud wail or bursting tears ne'er to its stillness come,
But calmness reigns within its hall, wrapt in its shrouded home!
151
ANCIENT UTICA.
TUA GLORIA EST PROFECTA.
Thou of the things that were! a solemn voice
Seems from thy ruin to be stealing deep,
From thy clear fountains, wont but to rejoice,
In days of old, in pure and glassy sleep!
Oh! might thy broken walls the spirits keep,
Which gave thee glory in the days gone by,
As a brief ray when thronging tempests sweep
On the thick darkness of the clouded sky,
That fears the searching glance of the sun's burning eye.
Seems from thy ruin to be stealing deep,
From thy clear fountains, wont but to rejoice,
In days of old, in pure and glassy sleep!
Oh! might thy broken walls the spirits keep,
Which gave thee glory in the days gone by,
As a brief ray when thronging tempests sweep
On the thick darkness of the clouded sky,
That fears the searching glance of the sun's burning eye.
Where are the hosts that shouted by thy wave,
Thou dark Bograda, with thy murmuring tone?
Is there no sound to answer from the grave,
Where the high hearts of other years have gone?
Hath troubled Lethe to her cold wave won
The mighty of the past—the faded dead?
Is the bright race of their existence run,
Like the last hues of day, when softly shed
From a deep, mournful sky o'er land and ocean spread.
Thou dark Bograda, with thy murmuring tone?
Is there no sound to answer from the grave,
Where the high hearts of other years have gone?
Hath troubled Lethe to her cold wave won
The mighty of the past—the faded dead?
Is the bright race of their existence run,
152
From a deep, mournful sky o'er land and ocean spread.
Where are the senates in thy proud domain?
Their halls are ashes: Cæsar's marble now
Gleams from the dust, awaked to life again
With the green leaves upon his lofty brow!
Oh, may thy crumbled temples tell us how
The shout of triumph thrilled, when Cato spoke
Deep tones, and fearless as a harp's sweet flow:
Alas! his voice is hushed! life's chain is broke!
Who may relume his eye, which once to glory woke?
Their halls are ashes: Cæsar's marble now
Gleams from the dust, awaked to life again
With the green leaves upon his lofty brow!
Oh, may thy crumbled temples tell us how
The shout of triumph thrilled, when Cato spoke
Deep tones, and fearless as a harp's sweet flow:
Alas! his voice is hushed! life's chain is broke!
Who may relume his eye, which once to glory woke?
Ask of the traveller where thy might hath fled—
He who looks on thee while the soft winds sighing,
Breathe in the olives waving o'er the dead:
Of mouldering arches to man's step replying,
And columns, where the night bird's lays are dying!
These are the records of thy dull decay—
Of Time's swift footsteps o'er earth's glory flying,
Blending with dust the might and the array
Of pride, and joy, and hope—earth's dreams that pass away!
He who looks on thee while the soft winds sighing,
Breathe in the olives waving o'er the dead:
Of mouldering arches to man's step replying,
And columns, where the night bird's lays are dying!
These are the records of thy dull decay—
Of Time's swift footsteps o'er earth's glory flying,
Blending with dust the might and the array
Of pride, and joy, and hope—earth's dreams that pass away!
153
Yet, when the day-beams light the lengthening plain,
Thine is a scene of peace: the citron-grove
Waves in its soft, green light; the distant main
Sends on the summer-breeze a hymn of love
From the glad sailor's heart; the sky above
Wears hues all glorious, and the earth is drest
In joy and beauty, while the sweet winds rove,
Making soft music o'er a city's rest,
Chanting a plaintive song o'er valor's mouldering breast!
Thine is a scene of peace: the citron-grove
Waves in its soft, green light; the distant main
Sends on the summer-breeze a hymn of love
From the glad sailor's heart; the sky above
Wears hues all glorious, and the earth is drest
In joy and beauty, while the sweet winds rove,
Making soft music o'er a city's rest,
Chanting a plaintive song o'er valor's mouldering breast!
Nature is with thee in luxuriant spring,
Though dust is blending with thy colonnades,
Still summer all her revelry doth bring:
The deep recesses of her tuneful shades,
And birds' sweet voices in the fragrant glades:
These cling around thee, when the moss of age
Sleeps on thy pillars as their grandeur fades—
A trace of ruin on Time's changing page—
A picture of the past—of man's brief pilgrimage!
Though dust is blending with thy colonnades,
Still summer all her revelry doth bring:
The deep recesses of her tuneful shades,
And birds' sweet voices in the fragrant glades:
These cling around thee, when the moss of age
Sleeps on thy pillars as their grandeur fades—
A trace of ruin on Time's changing page—
A picture of the past—of man's brief pilgrimage!
Nature is with thee!—spring, with smile and sigh,
And lulling founts in the pure sunlight leaping;
Bright wings are glancing in the purple sky,
The early leaves and open buds o'er sweeping—
A scene of joy o'er faded glory keeping—
Breathing calm freshness o'er the fair earth's breast:
On the green spot where glorious dust is sleeping,
Where the high heart its kindred earth has pressed,
Nature is lovely still, above MAN'S silent rest!
And lulling founts in the pure sunlight leaping;
Bright wings are glancing in the purple sky,
154
A scene of joy o'er faded glory keeping—
Breathing calm freshness o'er the fair earth's breast:
On the green spot where glorious dust is sleeping,
Where the high heart its kindred earth has pressed,
Nature is lovely still, above MAN'S silent rest!
155
THE DYING POET.
“I could lie down, like a tried child,
And weep away this life of care,
Which I have borne and still must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel, in the warm air,
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.”
Shelley.
And weep away this life of care,
Which I have borne and still must bear,
Till death, like sleep, might steal on me,
And I might feel, in the warm air,
My cheek grow cold, and hear the sea
Breathe o'er my dying brain its last monotony.”
Shelley.
'T is a spring hour: the silvery green
Of new-leaved woods delight my breast;
Yet must I leave this joyous scene,
Close my dim eyes, and be at rest;
The dews of death are on my brow,
And saddened Memory turns to trace
Scenes of pure thought which shone but now,
Ere yet I close life's fitful race!
Of new-leaved woods delight my breast;
Yet must I leave this joyous scene,
Close my dim eyes, and be at rest;
The dews of death are on my brow,
And saddened Memory turns to trace
Scenes of pure thought which shone but now,
Ere yet I close life's fitful race!
The melody of early birds
Comes softly to my dying ear:
How like the sweet and gentle words
Which early love rejoiced to hear!
The last red light is on the flowers,
Their tints upon the green earth lie:
Oh! must I turn from life's warm hours,
From this bright scene of joy—to die?
Comes softly to my dying ear:
How like the sweet and gentle words
Which early love rejoiced to hear!
The last red light is on the flowers,
Their tints upon the green earth lie:
Oh! must I turn from life's warm hours,
From this bright scene of joy—to die?
156
Chant on, ye wanderers of the sky!
Ye light of heart and gay of wing;
The early buds are opening by,
From the fresh earth the violets spring!
The rills are babbling through the grove,
Their gentle voices mingling swell:
They chant to trees whose shade I love,
Which I must leave! Oh, then, farewell!
Ye light of heart and gay of wing;
The early buds are opening by,
From the fresh earth the violets spring!
The rills are babbling through the grove,
Their gentle voices mingling swell:
They chant to trees whose shade I love,
Which I must leave! Oh, then, farewell!
Farewell to life! its morning hour
Was like a golden paradise;
Hope sprang like some luxuriant flower,
Where youth's enchanted visions rise!
I have had peace—its hour was brief:
I have had care—it lingered long!
Joy's tree sent down its faded leaf,
On Pleasure's lip expired the song!
Was like a golden paradise;
Hope sprang like some luxuriant flower,
Where youth's enchanted visions rise!
I have had peace—its hour was brief:
I have had care—it lingered long!
Joy's tree sent down its faded leaf,
On Pleasure's lip expired the song!
I, too, have loved: a holy dream
Rejoiced my warm and cheerful heart:
Thus have I marked the rainbow's gleam
On April clouds, and then depart!
Its smile was brief: deep hours of love
Came o'er my soul, intensely pure:
Why should the cloud o'er sunlight move?
Why may not heaven on earth endure?
Rejoiced my warm and cheerful heart:
Thus have I marked the rainbow's gleam
On April clouds, and then depart!
Its smile was brief: deep hours of love
Came o'er my soul, intensely pure:
Why should the cloud o'er sunlight move?
Why may not heaven on earth endure?
THE END.
| The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | |