I watched the' unfolding scenes of his life,
From' the lonely retreat where my heart reposed;
'Twas a magical drama—a fabulous strife;
Now' the curtain has fallen, the volume is closed.
The sense of my very self grows dim,
With nothing but Self either here or beyond;
That Self which would have been lost in him,
Had he only died ere he broke the bond.
SISTER Sorrow! sit beside me,
Or, if I must wander, guide me ;
Let me take thy hand in mine,
Cold alike are mine and thine.
Think not, Sorrow, that I hate thee,—
Think not I am frightened at thee,-
Thou art come for some good end,
I will treat thee as a friend.
I will say that thou art bound
My unshielded soul to wound
By some force without thy will
And art tender-minded still.
I will say thou givest scope
To the breath and light of hope;
That thy gentle tears have weight
Hardest hearts to penetrate :
That thy shadow brings together
Friends long lost in sunny weather,
With an hundred offices
Beautiful and blest as these.
Softly takest Thou the crown
From my haughty temples down;
Place it on thine own pale brow,
Pleasure wears one,-why not Thou?
Let the blossoms glisten there
On thy long unbanded hair,
And when I have borne my pain,
Thou wilt give them me again.
If Thou goest, sister Sorrow!
I shall look for Thee to-morrow,—
I shall often see Thee drest
As a masquerading guest :
And howe'er Thou hid'st the name,
I shall know Thee still the same
As Thou sitt'st beside me now,
With my garland on thy brow.
EYES which can but ill define
Shapes that rise about and near,
Through the far horizon's line
Stretch a vision free and clear:
Memories feeble to retrace
Yesterday's immediate flow,
Find a dear familiar face
In each hour of Long-ago.
Follow yon majestic train
Down the slopes of old renown,
Knightly forms without disdain,
Sainted heads without a frown;
Emperors of thought and hand
Congregate, a glorious show,
Met from every age and land
In the plains of Long-ago.
As the heart of childhood brings
Something of eternal joy,
From its own unsounded springs,
Such as life can scarce destroy :
So, remindful of the prime,
Spirits, wand'ring to and fro,
Rest upon the resting time
In the peace of Long-ago.
Youthful Hope's religious fire, When it burns no longer, leaves Ashes of impure Desire
On the altars it bereaves;
But the light that fills the Past
Sheds a still diviner glow,
Ever farther it is cast
O'er the scenes of Long-ago.
Many a growth of pain and care,
Cumbering all the present hour,
Yields, when once transplanted there,
Healthy fruit or pleasant flower;
Thoughts that hardly flourish here,
Feelings long have ceased to blow,
Breathe a native atmosphere
In the world of Long-ago.
On that deep-retiring shore
Frequent pearls of beauty lie,
Where the passion-waves of yore
Fiercely beat and mounted high:
Sorrows that are sorrows still
Lose the bitter taste of woe;
Nothing's altogether ill
In the griefs of Long-ago.
Tombs where lonely love repines,
Ghastly tenements of tears,
Wear the look of happy shrines
Through the golden mist of years:
Death, to those who trust in good,
Vindicates his hardest blow;
Oh! we would not, if we could,
Wake the sleep of Long-ago!
Though the doom of swift decay Shocks the soul where life is strong,
Though for frailer hearts the day
Lingers sad and overlong,—
Still the weight will find a leaven,
Still the spoiler's hand is slow,
While the Future has its Heaven,
And the Past its Long-ago.
O POWER! whose organ is the tremulous air,
Thou that not only to the accordant sense
Unfoldest all a world of harsh and fair,
But hast a far diviner influence,
Submitting to inscrutable controul
The finest elements of human soul;
O mystic Sound! what heart can keep aloof,
If summoned to acknowledge thy bland sway,
As thou approachest in the golden woof
Of luscious harmonies serene or gay?
But thou hast moods I would not honour less,
Thy simplest forms of moral kingliness.
How did my childish ecstasy burst out,
When first I found thy Echoes at my call!
What blithe caprice of whisper, song, and shout,
Woke the steep hill and challenged the long wall!
How we did laugh! I needed from that day
Nor other playfellows nor other play.
Further in life, when thoughts and feelings slept
In my heart's tomb, some one particular tone
Of common bells has stung me till I wept,
And rushed away, oppressed by things foregone ;
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