Ir is the depth of night: far, far on high
The still white moon insensibly is stealing
Along the fleecy clouds and dim blue sky,
From out her silver cup to mortals dealing
The invisible dews of rest and slumbrous feeling;
And human griefs, and weariness, and pain,
Are hush'd beneath that eye so soft and healing,
As wintry winds, that all day long complain
Through some deserted hall, at night go rest again.
Thou too belike, my gentle Theocrine,
Art laid in slumber calm and innocent,
Lull'd by sweet thoughts, (such rest be ever thine!) Fit close of day in happy duties spent
And tendances of love, with converse blent
And kindly household smiles. So liest thou dreaming,
Like infancy serene and confident,
While the meek moonlight, thro' the casement
Upon thy sleeping face, makes sweeter its sweet seeming.
But not to me, fair love! but not to me
Comes genial rest, though oft entreated dear:
But anxious thoughts, that nightly watchers be
Beside my lonely chair, the servants drear
Of restless Grief, and heart-oppressing Fear,
True to their penal ministry, repel
Soft-footed Sleep, with looks and tones severe,
And words, whose import deep I may not tell
In this rude song, but guard like an unutter'd spell.
Ah! woe is me, that I am forced to wrong
With my vain griefs, and moans importunate,
The beauty of fair silence! All too long
Has this sad strife endured, this wild debate
'Twixt feeble will and adamantine fate:
When will it end? What new and vital power,
Forth walking 'mid the spirit's desolate
And ruined places, there shall plant the flower
Of hope and natural joy, and build for peace a bower?
O Theocrine! the Spring returns again, The heavenly Spring, and joy is over all : The deep thick grass is wet with sunny rain, Whose pattering drops like low soft music fall On the wood-wanderer's ear: the wild-bird's call Thrills the young listener's heart like aery wine : On sloping banks, and under hedgerows tall, The primrose lights her star :-one spirit divine Fills heaven, and earth, and sea, gladdening all hearts but mine.
—Of this no more: a voice, as of the tomb,
Is heard, a long slow knell from yonder tower,
Telling of One cut off by sudden doom
In womanhood's full morn, and beauty's flower,
Even on the verge of the glad nuptial hour;
Leaving no record, save a portraiture
By artist memory hung in Friendship's bower,
And hauntings of remembrance, deep and pure,
In a few faithful hearts, scatter'd o'er earth's obscure.
Thou walkest yet on earth, fair Theocrine,
And earth's mysterious influences convey
Nurture to thy soft frame, and spirit fine;
But She, for whom they grieve, hath cast away
Her fleshly robes, the dress of her brief day,
And laid her down in an eternal bed:
She hath no portion in life's work or play,
Its changes or its cares; her doom is said.
The lily blooms on earth; the rose is gathered.
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