EARLIER POEMS. THRENODIA. When his glad mother on him stole GONE, gone from us! and shall we see O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, Those sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore? That would have soared like strong winged birds Those deep, dark eyes so warm and Far, far into the skies, bright, Wherein the fortunes of the man The stars of those two gentle eyes As we watched them slowly rise, Gladding the earth with song, Had he but tarried with us long! And she would read them o'er and o'er, Her heart no more will beat Pondering, as she sate, And tears would slide from out her eye, To feel the touch of that soft palm, sweet. How quiet are the hands That wove those pleasant bands! The tongue that scarce had learned to Alas! too deep, too deep claim An entrance to a mother's heart Is this his slumber! Time scarce can number By that dear talisman, a mother's name, The years ere he shall wake again. Sleeps all forgetful of its art! I loved to see the infant soul Fluttering with half-fledged words, That more than words expressed, O, may we see his eyelids open then! O stern word Nevermore! As the airy gossamere, Floating in the sunlight clear, "To the shore Follow! O, follow! To be at rest forevermore! Forevermore !" Look how the gray old Ocean When he hears our restful voices; And all sweet sounds of earth and air oar; Turn thy curved prow ashore, And in our green isle rest forevermore ! Forevermore!" And Echo half wakes in the wooded hill, And, to her heart so calm and deep, Murmurs over in her sleep, Doubtfully pausing and murmuring still, "Evermore! Thus, on Life's weary sea, Is it not better here to be, To see the still seals only Making it yet more lonely? A restless grave, where thou shalt lie Look down beneath thy wave-worn baik, The leaden eye of the sidelong shark Ever waiting there for thee: And snorting through the angry spray, Look down beneath thy wave-worn bark Thus, on Life's lonely sea, Voices sad, from far and near, Here all is pleasant as a dream; The wind scarce shaketh down the dew, The green grass floweth like a stream Into the ocean's blue; Listen! O, listen! Here is a gush of many streams, And every wish and longing seems Here ever hum the golden bees So smooth the sand, the yellow sand, That thy keel will not grate as it touches the land; All around with a slumberous sound, The singing waves slide up the strand, And there, where the smooth, wet pebbles be, The waters gurgle longingly, As if they fain would seek the shore, |