« ПредыдущаяПродолжить »
The rapt brow of the Desert John;
The awful glory of that day,
Through manhood's veil of clay.
And, midst gray prophet forms, and wild
Dark visions of the days of old, How sweetly woman's beauty smiled
Through locks of brown and gold!
There Fornarina's fair young face
Whose model of an angel's grace
Slow passed that vision from my view,
The soft, calm shadows which it threw
The truth, that painter, bard, and sage,
Plant for their deathless heritage
We shape ourselves the joy or fear
And fill our Future's atmosphere
The tissue of the Life to be
We weave with colors all our own,
And in the field of Destiny
Still shall the soul around it call
The shadows which it gathered here,
And painted on the eternal wall
Think ye the notes of holy song
Think ye that Raphael's angel throng
Oh no!—We live our life again:
The pictures of the Past remain,—
They tell me, Lucy, thou art dead—
That all of thee we loved and cherished,
And left, as its young beauty fled,
An ashen memory in its stead—
Whose fading light is cold and vain:
Of low, sweet music passed away.
Of a mind, earnest, clear, profound,
Its sunny light on all around,
And sympathies which found no rest,
Save with the loveliest and best.
But sorrow in the mourner's breast ?—«
Can lift for thee the veil which doubt
And human fear have drawn about The all-awaiting scene of death.
LUCY HOOPER, 59
Even as thou wast I see thee still;
Of all we knew and loved in thee—
Baptized in immortality 1
Of souls that, with their earthly mould,
Cast off the loves and joys of old— Unbodied—like a pale moonbeam,
As pure, as passionless, and cold; Nor mine the hope of Indra's son,
Of slumbering in oblivion's rest,
In blank annihilation blest;
Not others, but themselves are they.
A change from twilight into day.
They've laid thee midst the household graves, Where father, brother, sister lie;
Below thee sweep the dark blue waves,
Above thee bends the summer sky. Thy own loved church in sadness read Her solemn ritual o'er thy head, And blessed and hallowed with her prayer The turf laid lightly o'er thee there. That church, whose rites and liturgy, Sublime and old, were truth to thee, Undoubted to thy bosom taken, As symbols of a faith unshaken. Even I, of simpler views, could feel The beauty of thy trust and zeal; And, owning not thy creed, could see How deep a truth it seemed to thee, And how thy fervent heart had thrown O'er all, a coloring of its own, And kindled up, intense and warm, A life in every rite and form, As, when on Chebar's banks of old, The Hebrew's gorgeous vision rolled, A spirit filled the vast machine— A life "within the wheels" was seen.
Farewell! A little time, and we
Who knew thee well, and loved thee here, One after one shall follow thee
As pilgrims through the gate of fear,
All that is left our hearts meanwhile;
Shall round our weary pathway smile,
Thy generous scorn of all things wrong—* The truth, the strength, the graceful beauty
Which blended in thy song.
Shall whisper to our hearts of thee; These green hills, where thy childhood roved—
Yon river winding to the sea— The sunset light of autumn eves
Reflecting on the deep, still floods,
Of rainbow-tinted woods,—
Not vainly did old poets tell,
Nor vainly did old genius paint God's great and crowning miracle-~
The hero and the saint!
For even in a faithless day
Can we our sainted ones discern;
And feel, while with them on the way,
And thus the common tongue and pen
Which, world-wide, echo Channing's fame,
As one of Heaven's anointed men,
In vain shall Rome her portals bar,
Whom, in the world's great calendar,