O powerful western fallen star! O shades of night-O moody, tearful night! O great star disappeared-O the black murk that hides the star! In the dooryard fronting an old farm-house near the white-washed palings, Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green. With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love With every leaf a miracle-and from this bush in the dooryard, With its delicate-coloured blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green, A sprig with its flower I break. Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities, Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the grey debris, Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass, Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields uprising, Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards, Coffin that passes through lanes and streets, Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land, With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black, With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing, With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night, With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads, With the waiting depôt, the arriving coffin and the sombre faces, With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn, With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin, The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey, With the tolling tolling bells' perpetual clang, Here, coffin that slowly passes, I give you my sprig of lilac. (Nor for you, for one alone, Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring, For fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death. .) Come, lovely and soothing Death; Undulate round the world; serenely arriving, arriving, Sooner, or later, delicate Death. Praised be the fathomless Universe For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious; Dark Mother, always gliding near, with soft feet, Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome? I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly. Approach, encompassing Death-strong deliveress, When it is so, when thou hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead, Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee, Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O Death. From me to thee glad serenades, Dances for thee I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee, And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting, And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night. The night in silence under many a star, The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know, Over the tree-tops I float thee a song, Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide, Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways, I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O Death. WALT WHITMAN (Memories of President Lincoln). 1061. FROM THE MEETING' I ASK no organ's soulless breath To drone the themes of life and death, No altar candle-lit by day, No cool philosophy to teach No pulpit hammered by the fist The smoking thunderbolts of I know how well the fathers taught, What work the ancient schoolmen wrought; I reverence old-time faith and men, But God is near us now as then; His force of love is still unspent, His hate of sin as imminent; And still the measure of our needs Outgrows the cramping bounds of creeds; The manna gathered yesterday Already savours of decay; Doubts to the world's child-heart unknown Question us now from star and stone. J. G. WHITTIER. 1062. VESTA O CHRIST of God! whose life and death Our own have reconciled, Most quietly, most tenderly Take home Thy star-named child! Thy grace is in her patient eyes, Thy words are on her tongue; The very silence round her seems As if the angels sung. Her smile is as a listening child's Who hears its mother call; The lilies of Thy perfect peace About her pillow fall. She leans from out our clinging arms To rest herself in Thine; Alone to Thee, dear Lord, can we Our well-beloved resign! Oh, less for her than for ourselves J. G. WHITTIER. 1063. FROM 'CHILD-SONGS' STILL linger in our noon of time And childhood had its litanies 1064. COME, CHLOE, AND GIVE ME SWEET KISSES COME, Chloe, and give me sweet kisses, Then, prithee, my charmer, be kind, Count the flowers that enamel its fields, My life on thy lips shall be spent! SIR C. HANBURY WILLIAMS. No mercy now can clear her brow For this world's peace to pray; For, as love's wild prayer dissolved in air, But the sin forgiven by Christ in Heaven, N. P. WILLIS. 1066. EPITAPH ON CHARLES II HERE lies our Sovereign Lord the King, Who never said a foolish thing, Nor ever did a wise one. J. WILMOT, EARL OF ROCHESTER. 1067. CONSTANCY I CANNOT change, as others do, Since that poor swain that sighs for you, No, Phillis, no! your heart to move, A surer way I'll try, And to revenge my slighted love, Will still love on, will still love on, and die! |