University of Virginia Library

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78

HELEN:

A DIRGE, WRITTEN FOR A MASQUE.

Where shall my sorrow comfort gain?
None answer: only one—“Complain,”
He said, “not in extremest pain
Or anguish, nor thy weakness speak;
The treasure gone, there thou must seek.”

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79

He knew me well, who thus could urge
My trial to the extremest verge
Of will. Then said he, “She did stand
Shielding thee ever with her hand;
Being gone, why tarry in the land?”

All the ground is wet with dew
Of tears I've rain'd the Summer through;
And see—already there is set,
Where the flowers and tears be met,
A wood of purple violet.
The gentle land-winds, how they blow
From orchard-blossoms tufts of snow,
Scattering o'er my loved one's bed
Their little pall of flowers! I said—
“Meet emblems were they of the dead.”
Nor less the ev'ning dirge I hear
Of those small fountains warbling near,
With their soft and silver feet
Tripping by in music sweet,
While each low murmur seems to say,
“He weeps for her who could not stay.”
Oh! but Love will come no more;
He has fled my cottage door,

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80

Ever since my sweet one died.
He said—“I lov'd her in my pride;
'Twas for myself,” he said, “I sigh'd.”
So he left me in my woe:
He cares not what may chance below;
But how I loved her best I know.
I built for her a palace bright
Within my heart; and full of light
Her image dwelt there day and night.
It was her love that made my life;
Without her all is inward strife,
Like waters when the winds are rife.
My grief it never can be told;
I've nothing left but books and gold;
My little Helen sleeps in mould.

So Love hath ever fled my door,
And I must weep for evermore.
He hath gone to take his rest;
His cheek is laid on Psyche's breast,
Their little hands together press'd;
And in each other's eyes they see
Their pretty forms. Oh! woe is me!
With her I never more shall be.

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81

In the cold earth one is laid
Rich as ever Nature made;
Whate'er she look'd on—to each place
Her beauty lent a living grace.