MISCELLANEOUS POEMS. THRENODIA. GONE, gone from us! and shall we see Those sibyl-leaves of destiny, Those calm eyes, nevermore? Those deep, dark eyes so warm and bright, Wherein the fortunes of the man Lay slumbering in prophetic light, The stars of those two gentle eyes Will shine no more on earth; Quenched are the hopes that had their birth, As we watched them slowly rise, Stars of a mother's fate; And she would read them o'er and o'er, Pondering, as she sate, Over their dear astrology, Which she had conned and conned before, Deeming she needs must read aright What was writ so passing bright. And yet, alas! she knew not why, Her voice would falter in its song, And tears would slide from out her eye, Silent, as they were doing wrong. The tongue, that scarce had learned to claim An entrance to a mother's heart By that dear talisman, a mother's name; Sleeps all forgetful of its art! I loved to see the infant soul Peep timidly from out its nest, Fluttering with half-fledged words, That more than words expressed, When his glad mother on him stole And snatched him to her breast! O, thoughts were brooding in those eyes, That would have soared like strong-winged birds Far, far into the skies, Gladding the earth with song And gushing harmonies, Had he but tarried with us long! O stern word-Nevermore ! How peacefully they rest, Crossfolded there Upon his little breast, Those small, white hands that ne'er were still before, But ever sported with his mother's hair, Or the plain cross that on her breast she wore! Her heart no more will beat To feel the touch of that soft palm, Sending glad thoughts up to her eyes To bless him with their holy calm, — Sweet thoughts! they made her eyes as sweet. How quiet are the hands That wove those pleasant bands! But that they do not rise and sink With his calm breathing, I should think That he were dropped asleep. Alas! too deep, too deep Is this his slumber! Time scarce can number The years ere he will wake agen. O, may we see his eyelids open then! O stern word - Nevermore! As the airy gossamere, Where'er it toucheth clingeth tightly, Tendrils spreading all about, Knitting all things to its thrall With a perfect love of all: O stern word-Nevermore! He did but float a little way Adown the stream of time, With dreamy eyes watching the ripples play, Or listening their fairy chime; His slender sail Ne'er felt the gale ; He did but float a little way, And, putting to the shore While yet 't was early day, Went calmly on his way, To dwell with us no more! No jarring did he feel, No grating on his vessel's keel; A strip of silver sand Mingled the waters with the land Where he was seen no more: O stern word-Nevermore! |