TO J. S. THE wind, that beats the mountain, blows And me this knowledge bolder made, Tis strange that those we lean on most, Fall into shadow, soonest lost: Those we love first are taken first. God gives us love. Something to love To ripeness, that on which it throve This is the curse of time. Alas! In grief I am not all unlearn'd; Once thro' mine own doors Death did pass ; One went, who never hath return'd. He will not smile-not speak to me Once more. Two years his chair is scen Empty before us. That was he Without whose life I had not been. Your loss is rarer; for this star Rose with you through a little arc Of heaven, nor having wander'd far Shot on the sudden into dark. I knew your brother: his mute dust I have not look'd upon you nigh, Since that dear soul hath fall'n asleep. Great Nature is more wise than I: And tho' mine own eyes fill with dew, I will not even preach to you, "Weep, weeping dulls the inward pain." Let Grief be her own mistress still. She loveth her own anguish deep More than much pleasure. Let her will Be done--to weep or not to weep. Of death is blown in every wind;" His memory long will live alone. In all our hearts, as mournful light That broods above the fallen sun, Vain solace! Memory standing near Cast down her eyes, and in her throat Her voiced seem'd distant, and a tear Dropt on the letters as I wrote. I wrote I know not what. In truth For he too was a friend to me: Both are my friends, and my true breast Bleedeth for both; yet it may be That only silence suiteth best. Words weaker than your grief would make Grief more. 'Twere better I should cease Although myself could almost take The place of him that sleeps in peace. Sleep sweetly, tender heart, in peace: While the stars burn, the moons increase, Sleep till the end, true soul and sweet.. Nothing comes to thee new or strange. Sleep full of rest from head to feet; Lie still, dry dust, secure of change. |