LITMIR.BIZ

        For he was ours. So let the note of pride

        Hush into silence all the mourner's ruth;

        In our safe harbor he was fain to bide

        And build for aye, after the storm of youth.

        We saw his mighty spirit onward stride

        To eternal realms of Beauty and of Truth;

        While far behind him lay fantasmally

        The vulgar things that fetter you and me.

        Then wilt thou, with thy fancies holy—

             Wilt thou, faithless, fly from me?

           With thy joy, thy melancholy,

             Wilt thou thus relentless flee?

           O Golden Time, O Human May,

             Can nothing, Fleet One, thee restraint?

        Must thy sweet river glide away

        Into the eternal Ocean Main?

        The suns serene are lost and vanish'd

          That wont the path of youth to gild,

        And all the fair Ideals banish'd

          From that wild heart they whilome fill'd.

        Gone the divine and sweet believing

          In dreams which Heaven itself unfurl'd!

        What godlike shapes have years bereaving

          Swept from this real work-day world!

        As once, with tearful passion fired,

          The Cyprian Sculptor clasp'd the stone,

        Till the cold cheeks, delight-inspired,

          Blush'd—to sweet life the marble grown:

        So youth's desire for Nature!—round

          The Statue so my arms I wreathed,

        Till warmth and life in mine it found,

          And breath that poets breathe—it breathed;

        With my own burning thoughts it burn'd;—

          Its silence stirr'd to speech divine;—

        Its lips my glowing kiss return'd—

          Its heart in beating answer'd mine!

        How fair was then the flower—the tree!—

          How silver-sweet the fountain's fall!

        The soulless had a soul to me!

          My life its own life lent to all!

        The Universe of things seem'd swelling

          The panting heart to burst its bound,

        And wandering Fancy found a dwelling

          In every shape, thought, deed, and sound.

        Germ'd in the mystic buds, reposing,

          A whole creation slumbered mute,

        Alas, when from the buds unclosing,

          How scant and blighted sprung the fruit!

        How happy in his dreaming error,

          His own gay valor for his wing,

        Of not one care as yet in terror

          Did Youth upon his journey spring;

        Till floods of balm, through air's dominion,

          Bore upward to the faintest star—

        For never aught to that bright pinion

          Could dwell too high, or spread too far.

        Though laden with delight, how lightly

          The wanderer heavenward still could soar,

        And aye the ways of life how brightly

          The airy Pageant danced before!

        Love, showering gifts (life's sweetest) down,

          Fortune, with golden garlands gay,

        And Fame, with starbeams for a crown,

          And Truth, whose dwelling is the Day.

        Ah! midway soon lost evermore,

          Afar the blithe companions stray;

        In vain their faithless steps explore,

          As one by one, they glide away.

        Fleet Fortune was the first escaper—

          The thirst for wisdom linger'd yet;

        But doubts with many a gloomy vapor

          The sun-shape of the Truth beset!

        The holy crown which Fame was wreathing,

          Behold! the mean man's temples wore,

        And, but for one short spring-day breathing,

          Bloom'd Love—the Beautiful—no more!

        And ever stiller yet, and ever

          The barren path more lonely lay,

        Till scarce from waning Hope could quiver

          A glance along the gloomy way.

        Who, loving, lingered yet to guide me,

          When

Скачать книгу