MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THRENODIA. GONE, gone from us! and shall we see Those sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, Wherein the fortunes of the man The stars of those two gentle eyes Will shine no more on earth; Quenched are the hopes that had their birth, As we watched them slowly rise, And she would read them o'er and o'er, Over their dear astrology, Which she had conned and conned before, Deeming she needs must read aright The tongue that scarce had learned An entrance to a mother's heart His lips, the while, That more than words expressed, O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, That would have soared like strongwinged birds Far, far, into the skies, Had he but tarried with us long! How peacefully they rest, Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore ! Her heart no more will beat as sweet. How quiet are the hands That wove those pleasant bands! Is this his slumber! Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake again. As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly, So from his spirit wandered out Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: O stern word - Nevermore ! He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or hearkening their fairy chime; Ne'er felt the gale; He did but float a little way, No grating on his vessel's keel; Full short his journey was; no dust Of earth unto his sandals clave; The weary weight that old men must, He bore not to the grave. He seemed a cherub who had lost his way And wandered hither, so his stay Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet O blest word - Evermore ! 1839. THE SIRENS. THE sea is lonely, the sea is dreary, The sea is restless and uneasy; Thou seekest quiet, thou art weary, Wandering thou knowest not whith er; Our little isle is green and breezy, Only the sliding of the wave Beneath the plank, and feel so near A cold and lonely grave, A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Even in death unquietly? Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark, Lean over the side and see The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Upturned patiently, Ever waiting there for thee: Look down and see those shapeless forms, Which ever keep their dreamless sleep Far down within the gloomy deep, And only stir themselves in storms, Rising like islands from beneath, And snorting through the angry spray, As the frail vessel perisheth In the whirls of their unwieldy play; Look down! Look down! Upon the seaweed, slimy and dark, That waves its arms so lank and brown, Beckoning for thee! Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Into the cold depth of the sea! Look down! Look down! Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Voices sad, from far and near, Here all is pleasant as a dream; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue; Listen! O, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, And every wish and longing seems Here ever hum the golden bees The sand is so smooth, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land; All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, These are Irené's dowry, which no fate Can shake from their serene, deepbuilded state. In-seeing sympathy is hers, which chasteneth No less than loveth, scorning to be bound With fear of blame, and yet which ever hasteneth To pour the balm of kind looks on the wound, If they be wounds which such sweet teaching makes, Giving itself a pang for others' sakes; No want of faith, that chills with sidelong eye, Hath she; no jealousy, no Levite pride That passeth by upon the other side; For in her soul there never dwelt a lie. Right from the hand of God her spirit came Unstained, and she hath ne'er forgotten whence It came, nor wandered far from thence, But laboreth to keep her still the same, Near to her place of birth, that she may not Soil her white raiment with an earthly spot. Yet sets she not her soul so steadily Above, that she forgets her ties to earth, But her whole thought would almost seem to be How to make glad one lowly human hearth; For with a gentle courage she doth strive In thought and word and feeling so to live As to make earth next heaven; and her heart Herein doth show its most exceeding worth, That, bearing in our frailty her just part, She hath not shrunk from evils of this life, But hath gone calmly forth into the strife, And all its sins and sorrows hath with stood FROM the close-shut windows gleams no spark, The night is chilly, the night is dark, The darkness is pressing coldly around, The world is happy, the world is wide, O, 't is a bitter and dreary word, WITH A PRESSED FLOWER. THIS little blossom from afar Hath plucked one from the self-same stalk, And numbered over, half afraid, "He loves me, loves me not," she cries; "He loves me more than earth of heaven!" And then glad tears have filled her |