LVIII. KING'S BRIDGE.
I
The dew falls fast, and the night is dark,
And the trees stand silent in the park;
And winter passeth from bough to bough
With stealthy foot that none may know,
But little the old man thinks he weaves
His frosty kiss on the ivy leaves.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
And it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Old trees by night are like men in thought,
By poetry to silence wrought;
They stand so still and they look so wise,
With folded arms and halfshut eyes,
More shadowy than the shade they cast
When the wan moonlight on the river passed.
The river is green, and runneth slow—
We cannot tell what it saith;
It keepeth its secrets down below,
And so doth Death!
II
Oh! the night is dark; but not so dark
As my poor soul in this lonely park:
There are festal lights by the stream, that fall,
Like stars, from the casements of yonder hall;
But harshly the sounds of gladness grate
On one that is crushed and desolate.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Oh, Sister! Sister! could I but hear
What this river saith in night's still ear,
And catch the faint whispering voice it brings
From its lowlands green and its reedy springs;
It might tell of the spot where the greybeard's spade
Turned the cold wet earth in the lime-tree shade.
The river is green, and runneth slow—
We cannot tell what it saith:
It keepeth its secrets down below,
And so doth Death!
III
For death was born in thy blood with life—
Too holy a fount for such sad strife:
Like a secret curse from hour to hour
The canker grew with the growing flower,
And little we deemed that rosy streak
Was the tyrant's seal on thy virgin cheek.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
But fainter and fainter thy bright eyes grew,
And ruder and redder that rosy hue;
And the half-shed tears that never fell,
And the pain within thou wouldst not tell,
And the wild, wan smile,—all spoke of death,
That had withered my sister with his breath.
The river is green, and runneth slow—
We cannot tell what it saith:
It keepeth its secrets down below,
And so doth Death!
IV
'Twas o'er thy harp one day in June,
I marvelled the strings were out of tune;
But lighter and quicker the music grew,
And deadly white was thy rosy hue;
One moment—and back the colour came,
Thou calledst me by my Christian name.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Thou badest me be silent and bold,
But my brain was hot, and my heart was cold.
I never wept, and I never spake,
But stood like a rock where the salt seas break;
And to this day I have shed no tear,
O'er my blighted rose and my sister's bier.
The river is green, and runneth slow—
We cannot tell what it saith:
It keepeth its secrets down below,
And so doth Death!
V
I stood in the church with burning brow,
The lips of the priest moved solemn and slow.
I noted each pause, and counted each swell,
As a sentry numbers a minute-bell;
For unto the mourner's heart they call
From the deeps of that wondrous ritual.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
But little to me were the psalm and prayer,
As they rose and fell on the cold church air,
Nor felt I a holier presence near
Than the withered flower on her darksome bier;
But I stood and prayed, as mourners may,
True prayer, though the thoughts be far away.
The river is green, and runneth slow—
We cannot tell what it saith:
It keepeth its secrets down below,
And so doth Death!
VI
The dew falls fast, and the night is dark;
The trees stand silent in the park.
The festal lights have all died out,
And nought is heard but a lone owl's shout.
The mists keep gathering more and more;
But the stream is silent as before.
From bridge to bridge with tremulous fall
The river droppeth down,
As it washeth the base of a pleasant hall
On the skirts of Cambridge town.
Why should I think of my boyhood's pride
As I walk by this low-voiced river's side?
And why should its heartless waters seem
Like a horrid thought in a feverish dream?
But it will not speak; and it keeps in its bed
The words that are sent us from the dead,
The river is green, and runneth slow—
We cannot tell what it saith:
It keepeth its secrets down below,
And so doth Death!
