And the far wanderings of the soul in dreams, And the strange inborn sense of coming ill, That ofttimes whispers to the haunted breast, In a low tone which nought can drown or still, 'Midst feasts and melodies a secret guest; Whence doth that murmur wake, that shadow fall? Why shakes the spirit thus?-'tis mystery all! Darkly we move-we press upon the brink Humbly for knowledge strives in vain to feel Th' immortal being with our dust entwined?So let us deem! and e'en the tears they wake Shall then be blest, for that high nature's sake. THE DEPARTED. "Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings, AND shrink ye from the way To the spirit's distant shore? BRYANT. Earth's mightiest men, in arm'd array, Are thither gone before. The warrior kings, whose banner Flew far as eagles fly, They are gone where swords avail them not, From the feast of victory. And the seers who sat of yore By orient palm or wave, They have pass'd with all their starry lore- We fear! we fear! the sunshine Is joyous to behold, And we reck not of the buried kings, Nor the awful seers of old. Ye shrink!-the bards whose lays Have made your deep hearts burn They have left the sun, and the voice of praise, For the land whence none return. And the beautiful, whose record Is the verse that cannot die, They too are gone, with their glorious bloom, Would ye not join that throng Those songs are high and holy, But they vanquish not our fear; Linger then yet awhile, As the last leaves on the bough!- There have been sweet singing voices There are seats left void in your earthly homes, Soft eyes are seen no more, That made Spring-time in your heart; Kindred and friends are gone before— And ye still fear to part? We fear not now, we fear not! Though the way through darkness bends; Our souls are strong to follow them, Our own familiar friends! THE PALM-TREE.' Ir waved not through an eastern sky, It was not fann'd by southern breeze But fair the exiled palm-tree grew Strange look'd it there!-the willow stream'd The lime-bough lured the honey-bee To murmur by the desert's tree, There came an eve of festal hours- 1 This incident is, I think, recorded by De Lille, in his poem of Les Jardins. But one, a lone one, 'midst the throng, And slowly, sadly, moved his plumes, To him, to him its rustling spoke, It whisper'd of his own bright isle, His mother's cabin home, that lay The same whence gush'd that childlike tear! |