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,
That ever seemed a new surprise
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
In this his slumber!
Time scarce can number
The years ere he will wake again
O, may we see his eyelids open then!
O stern word-Nevermore!
As the airy gossamere,
Floating in the sunlight clear,
Where'er it toucheth clinging tightly
Round glossy leaf or stump unsightly,
So from his spirit wandered out
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 to 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!
Full short his journey was; no dust
Of earth into his sandals clave;
The weary weight that old men must,
He bore not to the grave.
He seemed a cherub who had lost his way
And wandered hither, so his stay
With us was short, and 't was most meet
That he should be no delver in Earth's clod,
Nor need to pause and cleanse his feet
To stand before his God;
O blest word-Evermore!
THE SERENADE.
GENTLE, Lady, be thy sleeping,
Peaceful may thy dreamings be,
While around thy soul is sweeping,
Dreamy-winged, our melody;
Chant we, Brothers, sad and slow,
Let our song be soft and low,
As the voice of other years,
Let our hearts within us melt,
To gentleness, as if we felt
The dropping of our mother's tears.
Lady! now our song is bringing
Back again thy childhood's hours-
Hearest thou the humbee singing
Drowsily among the flowers?
Sleepily, sleepily
In the noontide swayeth he,
Half-rested on the slender stalks
That edge those well-known garden walks;
Hearest thou the fitful whirring
Of the humbird's viewless wings-
Feel'st not round thy heart the stirring
Of childhood's half-forgotten things?
Seest thou the dear old dwelling
With the woodbine round the door?
Brothers, soft! her breast is swelling
With the busy thoughts of yore;
Lowly sing ye, sing ye mildly,
Rouse her spirit not so wildly,
Lest she sleep not any more.
"T is the pleasant summertide,
Open stands the window wide-
Whose voices, Lady, art thou drinking?
Who sings that best beloved tune
In a clear note, rising, sinking,
Like a thrush's song in June?
Whose laugh is that which rings so clear
And joyous in thine eager ear?
Lower, Brothers, yet more low Weave the song in mazy twines; She heareth now the west wind blow At evening through the clump of pines; O mournful is their tune,
As of a crazèd thing
Who, to herself alone,
Is ever murmuring,
Through the night and through the day,
For something that hath passed away.
Often, Lady, hast thou listened,
Often have thy blue eyes glistened,
Where the summer evening breeze
Moaned sadly through those lonely trees,
Or with the fierce wind from the north
Wrung their mournful music forth.
Ever the river floweth
In an unbroken stream,
Ever the west wind bloweth,
Murmuring as he goeth,
And mingling with her dream;
Onward still the river sweepeth
With a sound of long-agone;
Lowly, Brothers, lo! she weepeth,
She is now no more alone;
Long-loved forms and long-loved faces
Round about her pillow throng,
Through her memory's desert places
Flow the waters of our song.
Lady! if thy life be holy
As when thou wert yet a child,
Though our song be melancholy,
It will stir no anguish wild;
For the soul that hath lived well,
For the soul that child-like is,
There is quiet in the spell
That brings back early memories.
LIFT up the curtains of thine eyes
And let their light outshine!
Let me adore the mysteries.
Of those mild orbs of thine,
Which ever queenly calm do roll,
Attuned to an ordered soul !
Open thy lips yet once again
And, while my soul doth hush With awe, pour forth that holy strain Which seemeth me to gush,
A fount of music, running o'er From thy deep spirit's inmost core!
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