And the yellow vapors choke
The great city sounding wide;
The day comes--a dull red ball
Wrapt in drifts of lurid smoke
On the misty river-tide.
Through the hubbub of the market
I steal, a wasted frame;
It crosses here, it crosses there,
Through all that crowd confused and loud
The shadow still the same;
And on my heavy eyelids
My anguish hangs like shame.
Alas for her that met me,
That heard me softly call,
Came glimmering through the laurels
At the quiet evenfall,
In the garden by the turrets
Of the old manorial hall!
Would the happy spirit descend
From the realms of light and song,
In the chamber or the street.
As she looks among the blest,
Should I fear to greet my friend
Or to say "Forgive the wrong,"
Or to ask her, "Take me, sweet,
To the regions of thy rest?"
But the broad light glares and beats,
And the shadow flits and Meets
And will not let me be;
And I loathe the squares and streets,
And the faces that one meets,
Hearts with no love for me;
Always I long to creep
Into some still cavern deep,
There to weep, and weep, and weep
My whole soul out to thee.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
TOO LATE.
"Dowglas, Dowglas, tendir and treu."
Could ye come back to me, Douglas, Douglas,
In the old likeness that I knew,
I would be so faithful, so loving, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Never a scornful word should grieve ye,
I 'd smile on ye sweet as the angels do;
Sweet as your smile on me shone ever,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true.
Oh, to call back the days that are not!
My eyes were blinded, your words were few:
Do you know the truth now, up in heaven,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true?
I never was worthy of you, Douglas;
Not half worthy the like of you:
Now all men beside seem to me like shadows--
I love you, Douglas, tender and true.
Stretch out your hand to me, Douglas, Douglas,
Drop forgiveness from heaven like dew;
As I lay my heart on your dead heart, Douglas,
Douglas, Douglas, tender and true!
DINAH MARIA MCLOCK CRAIK.
AFTER SUMMER.
We'll not weep for summer over,--
No, not we:
Strew above his head the clover,--
Let him be!
Other eyes may weep his dying,
Shed their tears
There upon him, where he's lying
With his peers.
Unto some of them he proffered
Gifts most sweet;
For our hearts a grave he offered,--
Was this meet?
All our fond hopes, praying, perished
In his wrath,--
All the lovely dreams we cherished
Strewed his path.
Shall we in our tombs, I wonder,
Far apart,
Sundered wide as seas can sunder
Heart from heart,
Dream at all of all the sorrows
That were ours,--
Bitter nights, more bitter morrows;
Poison-flowers
Summer gathered, as in madness,
Saying, "See,
These are yours, in place of gladness,--
Gifts from me"?
Nay, the rest that will be ours
Is supreme,
And below the poppy flowers
Steals no dream.
PHILIP BOURKE MARSTON.
LAMENT FOR HELIODORE.
Tears for my lady dead--
Heliodore!
Salt tears, and strange to shed,
Over and o'er;
Tears to my lady dead,
Love do we send,
Longed for, rememberèd,
Lover and friend!
Sad are the songs we sing,
Tears that we shed,
Empty the gifts we bring
Gifts to the dead!
Go, tears, and go, lament,
Fare from her tomb,
Wend where my lady went
Down through the gloom!
Ah, for my flower, my love,
Hades hath taken I
Ah, for the dust above
Scattered and shaken!
Mother of blade and grass,
Earth, in thy breast
Lull her that gentlest was
Gently to rest!
From the Greek of MELEAGER.
Translation of ANDREW LANG.
ON THE DEATH OF HER BROTHER, FRANCIS I.
'T is done! a father, mother, gone,
A sister, brother, torn away,
My hope is now in God alone,
Whom heaven and earth alike obey.
Above, beneath, to him is known,--
The world's wide compass is his own.
I love,--but in the world no more,
Nor in gay hall, or festal bower;
Not the fair forms I prized before,--
But him, all beauty, wisdom, power,
My Saviour, who has cast a chain
On sin and ill, and woe and pain!
I from my memory have effaced
All former joys, all kindred, friends;
All honors that my station graced
I hold but snares that fortune sends:
Hence! joys by Christ at distance cast,
That we may be his own at last!
From the French of MARGUERITE DE VALOIS, QUEEN OF NAVARRE.
Translation of LOUISA STUART COSTELLO.
TO MARY IN HEAVEN.
[Written in September, 1789, on the anniversary of the day on which he
heard of the death of his early love, Mary Campbell.]
Thou lingering star, with lessening ray,
That lov'st to greet the early morn,
Again thou usher'st in the day
My Mary from my soul was torn.
O Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
That sacred hour can I forget,--
Can I forget the hallowed grove,
Where by the winding Ayr we met
To live one day of parting love?
Eternity will not efface
Those records dear of transports past;
Thy image at our last embrace;
Ah! little thought we 't was our last!
Ayr, gurgling, kissed his pebbled shore,
O'erhung with wild woods, thickening green;
The fragrant birch, and hawthorn hoar,
Twined amorous round the raptured scene;
The flowers sprang wanton to be prest,
The birds sang love on every spray,--
Till soon, too soon, the glowing west
Proclaimed the speed of wingèd day.
Still o'er these scenes my memory wakes,
And fondly broods with miser care!
Time but the impression stronger makes,
As streams their channels deeper wear.
My Mary! dear departed shade!
Where is thy place of blissful rest?
See'st thou thy lover lowly laid?
Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast?
ROBERT BURNS.
MINSTREL'S SONG.
O sing unto my roundelay!
O, drop the briny tear with me!
Dance no more at holiday;
Like a running river be.
_My love is dead,
Gone to his death-bed,
All under the willow-tree._
Black his hair as the winter night,
White his neck as the summer snow,
Ruddy his face as the morning light;
Cold he lies in the grave below.
_My love is dead_, etc.
Sweet his tongue as the throstle's note;
Quick in dance as thought can be;
Deft his tabor, cudgel stout;
O, lie lies by the willow-tree!
_My love is dead_, etc.
Hark! the raven flaps his wing
In the briered dell below;
Hark! the death-owl loud doth sing
To the nightmares as they go.
_My love is dead_, etc.
See! the white moon shines on high;
Whiter is my-true-love's shroud,
Whiter than the morning sky,
Whiter than the evening cloud.
_My love is dead_, etc.
Here, upon my true-love's grave
Shall the barren flowers be laid,
Nor one holy saint to save
All the coldness of a maid.
_My love is dead_, etc.
With my hands I'll bind the briers
Round his holy corse to gre;
Ouphant fairy, light your fires;
Here my body still shall be.
_My love is dead_, etc.
Come, with acorn-cup and thorn,
Drain my heart's blood away;
Life and all its good I scorn,
Dance by night, or feast by day.
_My love is dead_, etc.
Water-witches, crowned with reytes,
Bear me to your lethal tide.
I die! I come! my true-love waits....
Thus the damsel spake, and died.
THOMAS CHATTERTON.
THE PASSAGE.
Many a year is in its grave
Since I crossed this restless wave:
And the evening, fair as ever.
Shines on ruin, rock, and river.
Then in this same boat beside.
Sat two comrades old and tried,--
One with all a father's truth,
One with all the fire of youth.
One on earth in silence wrought,
And his grave in silence sought;
But the younger, brighter form
Passed in battle and in storm.
So, whene'er I turn mine eye
Back upon the days gone by,
Saddening thoughts of friends come o'er me,
Friends that closed their course before me.
But what binds us, friend to friend,
But that soul with soul can blend?
Soul-like were those hours of yore;
Let us walk in soul once more.
Take, O boatman, thrice thy fee,
Take, I give it willingly;
For, invisible to thee,
Spirits twain have crossed with me.
From the German of LUDWIG UHLAND.
Translation of SARAH TAYLOR AUSTIN.
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,
Where we sat side by side
On a bright May mornin' long ago,
When first you were my bride;
The corn was springin' fresh and green.
And the lark sang loud and high--
And the red was on your lip, Mary,
And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary;
The day is bright as then;
The lark's loud song is in my ear,
And the corn is green again;
But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,
And your breath, warm on my cheek;
And I still keep list'nin' for the words
You nevermore will speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,
And the little church stands near--
The church where we were wed, Mary;
I see the spire from here.
But the graveyard lies between, Mary,
And my step might break your rest--
For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,
With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary.
For the poor make no new friends:
But, oh, they love the better still
The few our Father sends!
And you were all I had, Mary--
My blessin' and my pride!
There's nothing left to care for now,
Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,
That still kept hoping on.
When the trust in God had left my soul,
And my arm's young strength was gone;
There was comfort ever on your lip,
And the kind look on your brow,--
I bless you, Mary, for that same,
Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smile
When your heart was fit to break,--
When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,
And you hid it for my sake;
I bless you for the pleasant word,
When your heart was sad and sore,--
O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,
Where grief can't reach you more!
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,
My Mary--kind and true!
But I'll not forget you, darling,
In the land I'm goin' to;
They say there's bread and work for all,
And the sun shines always there--
But I'll not forget old Ireland,
Were it fifty times as fair!
And often in those grand old woods
I'll sit, and shut my eyes,
And my heart will travel back again
To the place where Mary lies;
And I'll think I see the little stile
Where we sat side by side,
And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,
When first you were my bride.
LADY DUFFERIN.
HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD.
FROM "THE PRINCESS."
Home they brought her warrior dead:
She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;
All her maidens, watching, said,
"She must weep or she will die."
Then they praised him, soft and low,
Called him worthy to be loved,
Truest friend and noblest foe;
Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,
Lightly to the warrior stept,
Took the face-cloth from the face;
Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,
Set his child upon her knee,--
Like summer tempest came her tears,
"Sweet my child, I live for thee."
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
Word was brought to the Danish king
(Hurry!)
That the love of his heart lay suffering,
And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;
(O, ride as though you were flying!)
Better he loves each golden curl
On the brow of that Scandinavian girl
Than his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:
And his rose of the isles is dying!
Thirty nobles saddled with speed;
(Hurry!)
Each one mounting a gallant steed
Which he kept for battle and days of need;
(O, ride as though you were flying!)
Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;
Worn out chargers staggered and sank;
Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;
But ride as they would, the king rode first,
For his rose of the isles lay dying!
His nobles are beaten, one by one;
(Hurry!)
They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;
His little fair page now follows alone,
For strength and for courage trying!
The king looked back at that faithful child;
Wan was the face that answering smiled;
They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,
Then he dropped; and only the king rode in
Where his rose of the isles lay dying!
The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;
(Silence!)
No answer came; but faint and forlorn
An echo returned on the cold gray morn,
Like the breath of a spirit sighing.
The castle portal stood grimly wide;
None welcomed the king from that weary ride;
For dead, in the light of the dawning day,
The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,
Who had yearned for his voice while dying!
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,
Stood weary.
The king returned from her chamber of rest,
The thick sobs choking in his breast;
And, that dumb companion eyeing,
The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;
He bowed his head on his charger's neck:
"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,
Dear steed, our ride hath been in vain
To the halls where my love lay dying!"
CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.
GRIEF.
FROM "HAMLET," ACT I. SC. 2.
QUEEN.--Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,
And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.
Do not, forever, with thy veiled lids
Seek for thy noble father in the dust:
Thou know'st 'tis common,--all that live must die,
Passing through nature to eternity.
HAMLET.--Ay, madam, it is common.
QUEEN.--If it be,
Why seems it so particular with thee?
HAMLET.--Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.
'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,
Nor customary suits of solemn black,
Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,
No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,
Nor the dejected havior of the visage,
Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,
That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,
For they are actions that a man might play:
But I have that within, which passeth show;
These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
SHAKESPEARE.
SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM."
[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1833.]
GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE.
V.
I sometimes hold it half a sin
To put in words the grief I feel:
For words, like Nature, half reveal
And half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,
A use in measured language lies;
The sad mechanic exercise,
Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,
Like coarsest clothes against the cold;
But that large grief which these enfold
Is given in outline and no more.
DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND.
IX.
Fair ship, that from the Italian shore
Sailest the placid ocean-plains
With my lost Arthur's loved remains,
Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.
So draw him home to those that mourn
In vain; a favorable speed
Ruffle thy mirrored mast, and lead
Through prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplex
Thy sliding keel, till Phosphor, bright
As our pure love, through early light
Shall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;
Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;
Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,
My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not see
Till all my widowed race be run;
Dear as the mother to the son,
More than my brothers are to me.
THE PEACE OF SORROW
XI.
Calm is the morn without a sound,
Calm as to suit a calmer grief,
And only through the faded leaf
The chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high wold
And on these dews that drench the furze,
And all the silvery gossamers
That twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plain
That sweeps with all its autumn bowers,
And crowded farms, and lessening towers,
To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,
These leaves that redden to the fall;
And in my heart, if calm at all,
If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,
And waves that sway themselves in rest,
And dead calm in that noble breast
Which heaves but with the heaving deep.
TIME AND ETERNITY.
XLII.
If Sleep and Death be truly one,
And every spirit's folded bloom
Through all its intervital gloom
In some long trance should slumber on;
Unconscious of the sliding hour,
Bare of the body, might it last,
And silent traces of the past
Be all the color of the flower:
So then were nothing lost to man;
So that still garden of the souls
In many a figured leaf enrolls
The total world since life began;
And love will last as pure and whole
As when he loved me here in Time,
And at the spiritual prime
Rewaken with the dawning soul.
PERSONAL RESURRECTION.
XLVI.
That each, who seems a separate whole,
Should move his rounds, and fusing all
The skirts of self again, should fall
Remerging in the general Soul,
Is faith as vague as all unsweet:
Eternal form shall still divide
The eternal soul from all beside;
And I shall know him when we meet:
And we shall sit at endless feast,
Enjoying each the other's good:
What vaster dream can hit the mood
Of Love on earth? He seeks at least
Upon the last and sharpest height,
Before the spirits fade away,
Some landing-place to clasp and say,
"Farewell! We lose ourselves in light."
SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP.
XCIII.
How pure at heart and sound in head,
With what divine affections bold,
Should be the man whose thought would hold
An hour's communion with the dead.
In vain shalt thou, or any, call
The spirits from their golden day,
Except, like them, thou too canst say,
My spirit is at peace with all.
They haunt the silence of the breast,
Imaginations calm and fair,
The memory like a cloudless air,
The conscience as a sea at rest:
But when the heart is full of din,
And doubt beside the portal waits,
They can but listen at the gates,
And hear the household jar within.
L.
Do we indeed desire the dead
Should still be near us at our side?
Is there no baseness we would hide?
No inner vileness that we dread?
Shall he for whose applause I strove,
I had such reverence for his blame,
See with clear eye some hidden shame,
And I be lessened in his love?
I wrong the grave with fears untrue:
Shall love be blamed for want of faith?
There must be wisdom with great Death:
The dead shall look me through and through.
Be near us when we climb or fall:
Ye watch, like God, the rolling hours
With larger other eyes than ours,
To make allowance for us all.
DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME.
LXXII.
So many worlds, so much to do,
So little done, such things to be,
How know I what had need of thee?
For thou wert strong as thou wert true.
The fame is quenched that I foresaw,
The head hath missed an earthly wreath:
I curse not nature, no, nor death;
For nothing is that errs from law.
We pass; the path that each man trod
Is dim, or will be dim, with weeds:
What fame is left for human deeds
In endless age? It rests with God.
O hollow wraith of dying fame,
Fade wholly, while the soul exults,
And self-enfolds the large results
Of force that would have forged a name.
THE POET'S TRIBUTE.
LXXVI.
What hope is here for modern rhyme
To him who turns a musing eye
On songs, and deeds, and lives, that lie
Foreshortened in the tract of time?
These mortal lullabies of pain
May bind a book, may line a box,
May serve to curl a maiden's locks:
Or when a thousand moons shall wane
A man upon a stall may find,
And, passing, turn the page that tells.
A grief, then changed to something else,
Sung by a long-forgotten mind.
But what of that? My darkened ways
Shall ring with music all the same;
To breathe my loss is more than fame,
To utter love more sweet than praise.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
APRÈS.
Down, down, Ellen, my little one,
Climbing so tenderly up to my knee;
Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me,
Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me?
Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one,
Warbling so fairily close to my ear;
Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me,
This that I made for your mother to hear?
Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one,
Wailing so wearily under the stars;
Why should I think of her tears, that might light to me
Love that had made life, and sorrow that mars?
Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one!
Is she not like her whenever she stirs?
Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me,
Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers?
Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one.
Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave,
Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,--
Something to cling to and something to crave.
Love, love, Ellen, my little one!
Love indestructible, love undefiled,
Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me,
Oft as I look on the face of her child.
ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.
THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.
Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the
age of twenty-two.
To make my lady's obsequies
My love a minster wrought,
And, in the chantry, service there
Was sung by doleful thought;
The tapers were of burning sighs,
That light and odor gave:
And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,
Enluminèd her grave;
And round about, in quaintest guise,
Was carved: "Within this tomb there lies
The fairest thing in mortal eyes."
Above her lieth spread a tomb
Of gold and sapphires blue:
The gold doth show her blessedness,
The sapphires mark her true;
For blessedness and truth in her
Were livelily portrayed,
When gracious God with both his hands
Her goodly substance made.
He framed her in such wondrous wise,
She was, to speak without disguise,
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.
No more, no more! my heart doth faint
When I the life recall
Of her who lived so free from taint,
So virtuous deemed by all,--
That in herself was so complete
I think that she was ta'en
By God to deck his paradise,
And with his saints to reign,
Whom while on earth each one did prize
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.
But naught our tears avail, or cries;
All soon or late in death shall sleep;
Nor living wight long time may keep
The fairest thing in mortal eyes.
From the French of CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.
Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
Break, break, break,
On thy cold gray stones, O sea!
And I would that my tongue could utter
The thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boy
That he shouts with his sister at play!
O well for the sailor lad
That he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on,
To the haven under the hill;
But O for the touch of a vanished hand,
And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,
At the foot of thy crags, O sea!
But the tender grace of a day that is dead
Will never come back to me.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
LAVENDER.
How prone we are to hide and hoard
Each little treasure time has stored,
To tell of happy hours!
We lay aside with tender care
A tattered book, a lock of hair,
A bunch of faded flowers.
When death has led with silent hand
Our darlings to the "Silent Land,"
Awhile we sit bereft;
But time goes on; anon we rise,
Our dead are buried from our eyes,
We gather what is left.
The books they loved, the songs they sang,
The little flute whose music rang
So cheerily of old;
The pictures we had watched them paint,
The last plucked flower, with odor faint,
That fell from fingers cold.
We smooth and fold with reverent care
The robes they living used to wear;
And painful pulses stir
As o'er the relics of our dead,
With bitter rain of tears, we spread
Pale purple lavender.
And when we come in after years,
With only tender April tears
On cheeks once white with care,
To look on treasures put away
Despairing on that far-off day,
A subtile scent is there.
Dew-wet and fresh we gather them,
These fragrant flowers; now every stem
Is bare of all its bloom:
Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them here
To lend our relics, sacred, dear,
Their beautiful perfume.
The scent abides on book and lute,
On curl and flower, and with its mute
But eloquent appeal
It wins from us a deeper sob
For our lost dead, a sharper throb
Than we are wont to feel.
It whispers of the "long ago;"
Its love, its loss, its aching woe,
And buried sorrows stir;
And tears like those we shed of old
Roll down our cheeks as we behold
Our faded lavender.
ANONYMOUS.
WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?
TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE.
What of the darkness? Is it very fair?
Are there great calms? and find we silence there?
Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glow
With some strange peace our faces never know,
With some strange faith our faces never dare,--
Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there?
Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?
Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?
Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap?
Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?
Day shows us not such comfort anywhere--
Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?
Out of the Day's deceiving light we call--
Day that shows man so great, and God so small,
That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass--
O is the Darkness too a lying glass!
Or undistracted, do you find truth there?
What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
VAN ELSEN.
God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul;
He spake by sickness first and made him whole;
Van Elsen heard him not,
Or soon forgot.
God spake to him by wealth, the world outpoured
Its treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;
Van Elsen's heart grew fat
And proud thereat.
God spake the third time when the great world smiled,
And in the sunshine slew his little child;
Van Elsen like a tree
Fell hopelessly.