From taint of Earth, thy tender drawings be. There we may find a friend remembered; With a new aureole hovering round the head, Given by Art's peaceful immortality. How many homes half empty fill the place Death vacates, with thy gracious substitutes! Not sensuous with color, which may disgrace The memory of the body shared with brutes; But the essential spirit in the face; As angels see us, best, Affection suits. TO WILLIAM LLOYD GARRISON, AFTER THE WAR. OH! happiest thou, who from the shining height, Of tablelands serene can look below Where glared the tempest, and the lightning's glow, And see thy seed made harvest wave in light, And all the darkened land with God's smile bright! Leaving with him the issue. Enough to know Aibeit the sword hath sundered broth EDWIN ARNOLD. SHE AND he. But he who loved her too well to dread "SHE is dead!" they said to him. The sweet, the stately, the beautiful "Come away; Kiss her! and leave her!-thy love is clay!" They smoothed her tr .sses of dark brown hair; On her forehead of marble they laid it fair: Over her eyes, which gazed too much, They drew the lids with a gentle touch; With a tender touch they closed up well The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell; About her brows, and her dear, pale face They tied her veil and her marriagelace; And drew on her white feet her But to heart and to soul distinct, HE who died at Azan sends Pale and white and cold as snow; Sweet friends! What the women lave plume the Of the falcon, not the bars stars. Loving friends! Be wise and dry 'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid Allah glorious! Allah good! Lives a life that never dies. Farewell, friends! Yet not farewell; Be ye certain all seems love, Thou love divine! Thou love alway! GEORGE ARNOLD. IN THE DARK, [The author's last poem, written a few days before his death.] ALL moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees Let those who wish them toil for gold and praise; To me the summer-day brings more of pleasure. Along the drifted sand-hills where So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease, While solemn voices from the Past are calling, Mingled with rustling whispers in the trees, And pleasant sounds of water idly falling. There was a time when I had higher aims Than thus to lie among the flowers and listen To listening birds, or watch the sunset's flames On the broad river's surface glow and glisten. There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought To make a name, a home, a bright existence: But time has shown me that my dreams are naught Save a mirage that vanished with the distance. Well, it is gone: I care no longer now For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises; Rather than wear a crown upon my brow, I'd lie forever here among the daisies. So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by; With you I surely cannot think to quarrel: Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie, And spare me both the labor and the laurel! |