We parted--friendship's dream had cast
Deep interest o'er the brief farewell,
And left upon the shadowy past
Full many a thought on which to dwell.
Such thoughts as come in early youth,
And live in fellowship with hope;
Robed in the brilliant hues of truth,
Unfitted with the world to cope.
We parted--he went o'er the sea,
And deeper solitude was mine;
Yet there remained in memory,
For feeling, still a sacred shrine.
And thought and hope were offered up
Till their ethereal essence fled,
And disappointment, from the cup,
Its dark libations poured, instead.
We parted--'twas an idle dream
That _thus_ we e'er should meet again;
For who that knew man's heart, would deem
That it could long unchanged remain.
He sought a foreign clime, and learned
Another language, which expressed
To strangers the rich thoughts that burned
With unquenched power within his breast.
And soon he better loved to speak
In those new accents than his own;
His native tongue seemed cold and weak,
To breathe the wakened passions' tone.
He wandered far, and lingered long,
And drank so deep of Lethe's stream,
That each new feeling grew more strong,
And all the past was like a dream.
We met--a few glad words were spoken,
A few kind glances were exchanged;
But friendship's first romance was broken,
His had been from me estranged.
I felt it all--we met no more--
My heart was true, but it was proud;
Life's early confidence was o'er,
And hope had set beneath a cloud.
We met no more--for neither sought
To reunite the severed chain
Of social intercourse; for nought
Could join its parted links again.
Too much of the wide world had been
Between us for too long a time;
And he had looked on many a scene,
The beautiful and the sublime.
And he had themes on which to dwell,
And memories that were not mine,
Which formed a separating spell,
And drew a mystic boundary line.
His thoughts were wanderers--and the things
Which brought back friendship's joys to me,
To him were but the spirit's wings
Which bore him o'er the distant sea.
For he had seen the evening star
Glancing its rays o'er ocean's waves,
And marked the moonbeams from afar,
Lighting the Grecian heroes' graves.
And he had gazed on trees and flowers
Beneath Italia's sunny skies,
And listened, in fair ladies' bowers,
To genius' words, and beauty's sighs.
His steps had echoed through the halls
Of grandeur, long left desolate;
And he had climbed the crumbling walls,
Or op'd perforce the hingeless gate;
And mused o'er many an ancient pile,
In ruin still magnificent,
Whose histories could the hours beguile
With dreams, before to fancy lent.
Such recollections come to him,
With moon, and stars, and summer flowers;
To me they bring the shadows dim
Of earlier and of happier hours.
I would those shadows darker fell--
For life, with its best powers to bless,
Has but few memories loved as well,
Or welcome as _forgetfulness_.