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That fires not, wins not, weeps not now,
And but for that chill, changeless brow,
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,
THERE is a calm for those who weep,
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
From all my toil.
DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.
Are shadows, not substantial things ;
Sceptre and crown
Must tumble down,
For Misery stole me at my birth,
Take home thy Child !
On thy dear lap these limbs reclined,
Some men with swords may reap the field,
And plant fresh laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still ;
Early or late
They stoop to fate, And must give up their murmuring breath, When they, pale captives, creep to death.
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!”
The garlands wither on your brow,
Then boast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar, now, See where the victor victim bleeds !
All heads must come
To the cold tomb, —
“Art thou a Wretch of hope forlorn, The victim of consuming care ? Is thy distracted conscience torn
By fell despair ?
“A bruised reed he will not break;
O, SNATCHED AWAY IN BEAUTY'S AMictions all his children feel ;
On thee shall press no ponderous tomb; “There is a calm for those who weep,
But on thy turf shall roses rear A rest for weary Pilgrims found;
Their leaves, the earliest of the year, And while the mouldering ashes sleep And the wild cypress wave in tender gloom : Low in the ground,
And oft by yon blue gushing stream
Shall Sorrow lean her drooping head, “The Soul, of origin divine,
And feed deep thought with many a dream, God's glorious image, freed from clay, And lingering pause and lightly tread; In heaven's eternal sphere shall shine, Fond wretch ! as if her step disturbed the dead! A star of day.
Away! we know that tears are vain, “ The Sun is but a spark of fire,
That Death nor heeds nor hears distress : A transient meteor in the sky;
Will this unteach us to complain ?
Or make one mourner weep the less ?
And thou, who tell’st me to forget,
My Mary! dear departed shade !
Where is thy place of blissful rest ? See'st thou thy lover lowly laid ? Hear'st thou the groans that rend his breast ?
THANK Heaven ! the crisis,
The danger is past,
Is over at last,
Is conquered at last.
Sadly, I know,
I am shorn of my strength, And no muscle I move
As I lie at full length But no matter!- I feel
I am better at length.
And ah ! let it never
Be foolishly said
And narrow my bed ;
In a different bed, And, to sleep, you must slumber
In just such a bed. My tantalized spirit
Here blandly reposes, Forgetting, or never
Reyretting, 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. She tenderly kissed me,
She fondly caressed, And then I fell gently
To sleep on her breast, Deeply to sleep
From the heaven of her breast.
And I rest so composedly Now, in
bed, That any beholder
When the light was extinguished,
She covered me warm,
To keep me from harm, –
To shield me from harm. And I lie so composedly
Now in my bed, (Knowing her love)
That you fancy me dead; And I rest so contentedly
Now in my bed, (With her love at my breast,)
That you fancy me dead,
Thinking me dead :
Than all of the many
For it sparkles with Annie,
From a spring but a very few
From a cavern not very far
Might fancy me dead,
Thinking me dead.
The moaning and groaning,
The sighing and sobbing, Are quieted now,
With that horrible throbbing At heart, – ah, that horrible,
Horrible throbbing !
The sickness, the nausea,
The pitiless pain,
That maddened my brain,
That burned in my brain.
And 0, of all tortures
That torture the worst Has abated,
Of Passion accurst !
That quenches all thirst,
Feet ander ground,
Down under ground.
It glows with the light
Of the love of my Annie, With the thought of the light
Of the eyes of my Annie.
Yes, they 're ever bending o'er her
Eyes that weep; Forms, that to the cold grave bore her,
EDGAR ALLAN POE.
When the summer moon is shining
Soft and fair, Friends she loved in tears are twining
THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.
[Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-iwo.)
To make my lady's obsequies
My love a minster wrought,
Was sung by doleful thought;
That light and odor gave ;
Enluminéd her grave;
Of gold and sapphires blue :
The sapphires mark her true ;
Were livelily portrayed,
Her goodly substance made.
When I the life recall
So virtuous deemed by all,
I think that she was ta'en
And with his saints to reign ;
All soon or late in death shall sleep;
Nor living wight long time may keep
CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS (French). Trans.
lation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.
DIRGE FOR A YOUNG GIRL.
UNDERNEATH the sod low-lying,
Dark and drear, Sleepeth one who left, in dying,
Backward, flow backward, O tide of the years !