That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
Where cold Obstruction's apathy
Appalls the gazing mourner's heart,
As if to him it could impart
The doom he dreads, yet dwells upon;
Yes, but for these and these alone,
Some moments, ay, one treacherous hour,
He still might doubt the tyrant's power;
So fair, so calm, so softly sealed,
The first, last look by death revealed!
Such is the aspect of this shore;
'Tis Greece, but living Greece no more!
So coldly sweet, so deadly fair,
We start, for soul is wanting there.
Hers is the loveliness in death,
That parts not quite with parting breath;
But beauty with that fearful bloom,
That hue which haunts it to the tomb,
Expression's last receding ray,
A gilded halo hovering round decay,
The farewell beam of Feeling past away;
Spark of that flame, perchance of heavenly birth,
Which gleams, but warms no more its cherished
earth!
LIKE to the falling of a star,
Or as the flights of eagles are,
Or like the fresh spring's gaudy hue,
Or silver drops of morning dew,
Or like a wind that chafes the flood,
Or bubbles which on water stood,
E'en such is man, whose borrowed light
Is straight called in, and paid to-night.
The wind blows out, the bubble dies,
The spring entombed in autumn lies,
The dew dries up, the star is shot,
The flight is past, - and man forgot!
THERE is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found,
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.
The storm that wrecks the winter sky No more disturbs their deep repose, Than summer-evening's latest sigh That shuts the rose.
I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil,
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toil.
For Misery stole me at my birth,
And cast me helpless on the wild :
I perish; - O my Mother Earth,
Take home thy Child!
On thy dear lap these limbs reclined,
Shall gently moulder into thee;
Nor leave one wretched trace behind
Resembling me.
Hark! a strange sound affrights mine ear,
My pulse, my brain runs wild, - I rave;
-Ah! who art thou whose voice I hear?
-"I am the Grave!
"The Grave, that never spake before,
Hath found at length a tongue to chide :
O listen!" "I will speak no more :--
Be silent, Pride!"
"Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn,
The victim of consuming care?
Is thy distracted conscience torn
By fell despair?
And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed.
My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes,
Forgetting, or never
Regretting, its roses,
Its old agitations
Of myrtles and roses :
For now, while so quietly
Lying, it fancies
A holier odor
About it, of pansies,
A rosemary odor,
Commingled with pansies, With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.
And so it lies happily,
Bathing in many
A dream of the truth
And the beauty of Annie, Drowned in a bath
Of the tresses of Annie.
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