Chapter 16

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.

Then in the darkness came a voice which said, "As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled, As I have need of thee, Thou needest me."

That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet, And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet, Praised Him with fervent breath Who conquered death.

FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.

WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED.

[THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.]

1.

When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed, And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night, I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.

Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring, Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west, And thought of him I love.

2.

O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night--O moody, tearful night! O great star disappeared--O the black murk that hides the star! O cruel hands that hold me powerless--O helpless soul of me! O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!

3.

In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green, With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love, With every leaf a miracle;--and from this bush in the door-yard, With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break.

4.

In the swamp in secluded recesses, A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.

Solitary the thrush, The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements, Sings by himself a song.--

Song of the bleeding throat, Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know, If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldst surely die).

5.

Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the gray débris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields up-risen, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave, Night and day journeys a coffin.

6.

Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs--where amid these you journey, With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac.

7.

(Nor for you, for one alone,-- Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring; For, fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death. All over bouquets of roses, O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies, But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first, Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes, With loaded arms I come, pouring for you, For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)

8.