CLIV.EFFUSION ON HEARING OF A FRIEND'S DEATH
FROM FEVER AT NAPLES.
I
And he is dead! Mourn, all ye moonlit hills,
Ye woods that sleep so sweetly in the beams,
Thou lake that twinklest like the light in dreams,
Thou dappled sky; and ye, O tuneful rills,
Thus charmed to silentness, awake and call
For power unto the raving waterfall!
II
And he is dead! Dear, blessèd spirit! there
By the wild river doth his dwelling stand,
The one dark spot in all the moonlit land,
Which lies beneath this mountain summit bare.
O Nature! my o'erburdened heart relieve,
Ye woods and hills, in mournful concert grieve!
III
Up many a vale I see the glimmering light
Of scattered farms; I hear the sheepdogs bay
The quiet hanging moon, and far away
The echos travel. O how calm is night!
And through the gloom I can no peak descry,
Which was not dear to Edward's gentle eye.
IV
And he is passed away,—with snowy sail
No more shall cleave Winander's azure deeps,
No more shall homeward wend while moonlight sleeps
On Brathay's ivied bridge and woody vale!
All, all is passed; a few calm months have rolled,
And all that world of joy is cold—is cold!
V
O Italy! thou wert his waking dream,
And thou hast proved his grave; we little know
The ills which from self-chosen pleasures flow.
Ah me! at length the moon with silver gleam
Hath struck his house-top, and the glittering rill
Shoots past the bridge, and then is dark and still.
VI
To-day I heard the cuckoo first this year;
It rose from his own grounds, an ominous cry,
Which with old arts and wiles advanced more nigh,—
Then thrown far off, when it had been most near:
This do I fondly note; such chances are
Not without light in sorrow's calendar.
VII
Thus yearly hath the warning deathbell tolled
Into my startled ear amid the chime
Of youth's long holydays; and every time
Bereavement seems more desolate and cold:
And I am now to grief less reconciled,
Than when I was in pureness more a child.
VIII
Ah woful lot! when sorrow hath become
A source of self-disturbance, not a thing
From which the growths of faith and meekness spring;
The world too much, too long hath been my home;
And this chill shock goes further, deeper in,
As though 'twere fathoming new depths of sin.
IX
And rainest thou, O Moon! so calm a shower
Upon Vesuvio's beacon-height, the sea
And the white crescent of Parthenope,
The garden terrace, and sweet lemon-bower?
And canst thou strike from out the hollow skies
The tranquil spot where that dear outcast lies?
X
I too within the moonlight of sad thought
Can compass far-off joys and long-past days:
Memory can strike with most pathetic rays
Kind pensive looks and tender actions wrought
In times bygone, and bring them round her now,
White flowers, tear-freshened, for pale sorrow's brow.
XI
How beautiful are thy constraints, O Death!
On our affections so benignly felt,
Making all hearts, ranks, ages melt
To one true brotherhood before thy breath!
I feel this night a fresh access of love
For my lost friend, which Heaven doth not reprove.
XII
Merciful God! with whom the spirits are,
Most holy Saviour! on the mountain top
The earth Thou madest, overspread with hope,
Breathes consolation in the quiet air:
Death is Thine earnest that our souls are free,
O blessèd are the dead who die in Thee!
XIII
Yea blessèd, else would earth or sky display
Some trouble when the youthful are laid low.
So soft, so calm may be the moonlight show,
When I, perchance still young, am called away,
No trouble stir that night on Brathay's shore
When I can hear his woodland voice no more!
