No, though all the winds that lie In the circle of the sky
Trace him out, and pray and moan, Each in its most plaintive tone,— No, though Earth be split with sighs, And all the Kings that reign Over Nature's mysteries
Be our faithfullest allies,- All-all is vain :
They may follow on his track,
But He never will come back
Youth is gone away,
Cruel, cruel Youth,
Full of gentleness and ruth
Did we think him all his stay; How had He the heart to wreak Such a woe on us so weak, He that was so tender-meek? How could He be made to learn To find pleasure in our pain? Could he leave us, to return Never again!
Bow your heads very low, Solemn-measured be your paces, Gathered up in grief your faces, Sing sad music as ye go;
In disordered handfuls strew Strips of cypress, sprigs of rue; In your hands be borne the bloom, Whose long petals once and only Look from their pink-leavèd tomb In the midnight lonely;
Let the nightshade's beaded coral Fall in melancholy moral
Your wan brows around,
While in very scorn ye fling The amaranth upon the ground As an unbelievèd thing;
What care we for its fair tale Of beauties that can never fail, Glories that can never wane?
No such blooms are on the track He has past, who will come back Never again!
Alas! we know not how He went, We knew not he was going,
For had our tears once found a vent, We' had stayed him with their flowing. It was as an earthquake, when We awoke and found him gone,
We were miserable men,
We were hopeless, every one! Yes, He must have gone away In his guise of every day, In his common dress, the same Perfect face and perfect frame; For in feature, for in limb, Who could be compared to him?
Firm his step, as one who knows
He is free, where'er he
goes, And withal as light of spring As the arrow from the string: His impassioned eye had got Fire which the sun has not; Silk to feel, and gold to see,
Fell his tresses full and free, Like the morning mists that glide Soft adown the mountain's side; Most delicious 'twas to hear When his voice was trilling clear As a silver-hearted bell,
Or to follow its low swell, When, as dreamy winds that stray Fainting 'mid Æolian chords, Inner music seemed to play Symphony to all his words; In his hand was poised a spear, Deftly poised, as to appear Resting of its proper will,— Thus a merry hunter still, And engarlanded with bay, Must our Youth have gone away, Though we half remember now, He had borne some little while Something mournful in his smile— Something serious on his brow: Gentle Heart, perhaps he knew The cruel deed he was about to do!
Now, between us all and Him There are rising mountains dim,
Forests of uncounted trees, Spaces of unmeasured seas: Think with Him how gay of yore We made sunshine out of shade,- Think with Him how light we bore All the burden sorrow laid; All went happily about him,— How shall we toil on without him? How without his cheering eye Constant strength embreathing ever? How without him standing by Aiding every hard endeavour? For when faintness or disease Had usurped upon our knees, If He deigned our lips to kiss With those living lips of his, We were lightened of our pain, We were up and hale again :- Now, without one blessing glance From his rose-lit countenance, We shall die, deserted men,- And not see him, even then!
We are cold, very cold,— All our blood is drying old, And a terrible heart-dearth Reigns for us in heaven and earth : Forth we stretch our chilly fingers In poor effort to attain
Tepid embers, where still lingers Some preserving warmth, in vain. Oh! if Love, the Sister dear Of Youth that we have lost, Come not in swift pity here, Come not, with a host
Of Affections, strong and kind, To hold up our sinking mind, If She will not, of her grace, Take her Brother's holy place, And be to us, at least, a part
Of what He was, in Life and Heart, The faintness that is on our breath Can have no other end but Death.
THE Soul is wasted with trouble and toil, The evening of Life is damp and chill,—— She would go back and rest awhile; She can go back whene'er she will,- For the Poet holds the Past in fee, That shadowy land is all his own, And He, not led by Memory, But as a man that walks alone In gardens long familiar, knows What spots afford the fit repose.
Surely she will not wander far,- Twilight is coming with never a star; Why may she not return where stands, Broadly towards the westering sun,
That proud building of hearts and hands, Castle and Palace all in one,
Over the portal named at length,
"Successful Manhood's place of strength?"
There she may traverse court and hall,
Up to her favourite turret tall;
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