 | Elegies and memorials |  |
16
II.
Ah, her young darling is not one of those!
His tale for her untold, its stormy close
Rent other hearts, but stirred not her repose;
Unguessed by her the strange and cheerless bed
Where rests, for ever rests, his weary head;
And nothing of their haunted life she knows,
For whom an awful star, 'twixt wind and wave,
Still hovers o'er a merciless despair,
Still hovers o'er their treasure hidden there,
Their treasure in a never-fathomed grave—
Who dare not look, but feel the ghastly gleam,
While years of silence tell them 'tis no dream—
To whom across the world and waste of sea,
A mute sad Shadow turns its solemn gaze,
Hopeless of home—“Forget me not,” It says:
“I am not lost, while Love remembers me.”
His tale for her untold, its stormy close
Rent other hearts, but stirred not her repose;
Unguessed by her the strange and cheerless bed
Where rests, for ever rests, his weary head;
And nothing of their haunted life she knows,
For whom an awful star, 'twixt wind and wave,
Still hovers o'er a merciless despair,
Still hovers o'er their treasure hidden there,
Their treasure in a never-fathomed grave—
Who dare not look, but feel the ghastly gleam,
While years of silence tell them 'tis no dream—
To whom across the world and waste of sea,
A mute sad Shadow turns its solemn gaze,
Hopeless of home—“Forget me not,” It says:
“I am not lost, while Love remembers me.”
Oh, faithful to the bidding of those eyes!
Oh, faithful to the tender heart of fire!
Love yearns for thee with unextinguished sighs,
But knows that with her death thy memory dies;
And dies with it one sacred sole desire,
To gather up the scattered dust of death,
To charm the long-lost phantom back to light,
And that dear semblance to all time bequeath—
Vain bitter prayer for bitter sweet delight!
In what strange lines of beauty should I draw thee?
In what sad purple dreamshine paint thee true?
How should I make them see who never saw thee?
How should I make them know who never knew?
Oh, faithful to the tender heart of fire!
Love yearns for thee with unextinguished sighs,
But knows that with her death thy memory dies;
And dies with it one sacred sole desire,
To gather up the scattered dust of death,
To charm the long-lost phantom back to light,
17
Vain bitter prayer for bitter sweet delight!
In what strange lines of beauty should I draw thee?
In what sad purple dreamshine paint thee true?
How should I make them see who never saw thee?
How should I make them know who never knew?
Beauteous, mysterious, solitary boy,
Awakening slowly to the Poet's joy!
Fire-fountain of young genius, showering rays
Of ruby sparkle through thy dreariest days—
Heart in its hardy frame of manhood, ever
Kept fresh and dewy through the stony ways
And dust of toil, with all its vain endeavour—
Oh, pathos of the dreaming azure gaze,
Mute mirror of the wonders far away,
That once so witched with its unconscious blaze
The stranger-artist—quenchless to this day,
Like stars burnt out in ages long gone by,
Whose phantoms still are splendid in the sky—
So all with thee, dear love, is dark and blind;
With us, the smile, the flash, the glory, stay behind!
Awakening slowly to the Poet's joy!
Fire-fountain of young genius, showering rays
Of ruby sparkle through thy dreariest days—
Heart in its hardy frame of manhood, ever
Kept fresh and dewy through the stony ways
And dust of toil, with all its vain endeavour—
Oh, pathos of the dreaming azure gaze,
Mute mirror of the wonders far away,
That once so witched with its unconscious blaze
The stranger-artist—quenchless to this day,
Like stars burnt out in ages long gone by,
Whose phantoms still are splendid in the sky—
So all with thee, dear love, is dark and blind;
With us, the smile, the flash, the glory, stay behind!
But words tell nothing—How tell half the rest?
The fancy's quaint inventiveness of jest—
Wild, beautiful caprices of a speech
Now long unwritten, mute, and past from reach—
The rebel spirit's free-born questionings,
Past use and fashion, to the core of things—
But words tell nothing. Dim, how dim, alas!
My painting shows upon no magic glass.
The fancy's quaint inventiveness of jest—
18
Now long unwritten, mute, and past from reach—
The rebel spirit's free-born questionings,
Past use and fashion, to the core of things—
But words tell nothing. Dim, how dim, alas!
My painting shows upon no magic glass.
Ah, where to seek him? Many a desert place
Of lovely wonders once had known him well,
And pilgrim fancy follows on his trace;
But, when she seems to find his missing face,
And weeping prays him all his tale to tell—
No word she hears save, “Nevermore! Farewell!”
Never the freezing forest, which the grim
North-easter sets a-tremble with one sigh,
Through all its plumy pine-tops in the sky,
Then rends with crash and uproar limb from limb—
Shall shut again its cedarn gates on him,
Nor whisper age-long secrets any more
Around the daring, dreaming hermit's door.
Oft the gold moon shall climb her midnight stair,
Above drear summits of the hemlock-tree—
With pale auroras decked, like streaming hair,
And from her chilly throne shall seek him there—
But her young lonely Poet, where is he?
From his wild prison where the stealthy Death
Went whispering through the trees with poniard breath,
Down thy snow gallery, thou steel-bound river,
Long since that poet passed away for ever.
Of lovely wonders once had known him well,
And pilgrim fancy follows on his trace;
But, when she seems to find his missing face,
And weeping prays him all his tale to tell—
No word she hears save, “Nevermore! Farewell!”
Never the freezing forest, which the grim
North-easter sets a-tremble with one sigh,
Through all its plumy pine-tops in the sky,
Then rends with crash and uproar limb from limb—
Shall shut again its cedarn gates on him,
Nor whisper age-long secrets any more
Around the daring, dreaming hermit's door.
Oft the gold moon shall climb her midnight stair,
Above drear summits of the hemlock-tree—
With pale auroras decked, like streaming hair,
And from her chilly throne shall seek him there—
19
From his wild prison where the stealthy Death
Went whispering through the trees with poniard breath,
Down thy snow gallery, thou steel-bound river,
Long since that poet passed away for ever.
Ah, where to seek him? For no longer now
In richer wilds and skied with fiercer blue,
The beauteous frown of sleep upon his brow,
Dreaming he lies, deep in the dawn's chill dew;
No more his flocks their desert pasture roam,
No more he toils, a miner in the wild;
But ah! for ever, evermore exiled,
For ever lost the solemn hope of home!
Brave, hardy wanderer, still through loss and pain
Athirst for beauty in earth, sky, and sea,
For thee no glaring prize, no vulgar gain
Was destined—but sweet Nature wedded thee;
And caught thee up with her to heaven's third height,
And things, by man unspeakable, she told—
Oh, what a soul was swept into the night!
Oh, what a heart in the cold deep lies cold!
What passion buried there its joy and pain!
Oh, sea and storm! Oh, homeward bound in vain!
Oh, home bereft, what long expectant years
Closed with that darling life in hopeless tears!
In richer wilds and skied with fiercer blue,
The beauteous frown of sleep upon his brow,
Dreaming he lies, deep in the dawn's chill dew;
No more his flocks their desert pasture roam,
No more he toils, a miner in the wild;
But ah! for ever, evermore exiled,
For ever lost the solemn hope of home!
Brave, hardy wanderer, still through loss and pain
Athirst for beauty in earth, sky, and sea,
For thee no glaring prize, no vulgar gain
Was destined—but sweet Nature wedded thee;
And caught thee up with her to heaven's third height,
And things, by man unspeakable, she told—
Oh, what a soul was swept into the night!
Oh, what a heart in the cold deep lies cold!
What passion buried there its joy and pain!
Oh, sea and storm! Oh, homeward bound in vain!
20
Closed with that darling life in hopeless tears!
| Elegies and memorials | |