« PreviousContinue »
It echoes along the vacant hall,
Through days of sorrow and of mirth,
Never-forever ! "
In that mansion used to be
There groups of merry children played,
Those hours the ancient timepiece told,
From that chamber, clothed in white,
All are scattered now and fled,
And when I ask, with throbs of pain,
As in the days long since gone by,
Never here, forever there,
THE FIRE OF DRIFT-WOOD,
DEVEREUX FARM, NEAR MARBLEHEAD.
We sat within the farm-house old,
Whose windows, looking o'er the bay, Gave to the sea-breeze, damp and cold,
An easy entrance, night and day.
Not far away we saw the port,
The strange, old-fashioned, silent town, The lighthouse, the dismantled fort,
The wooden houses, quaint and brown.
We sat and talked until the night,
Descending, filled the little room; Our faces faded from the sight,
Our voices only broke the gloom.
We spake of many a vanished scene,
Of what we once had thought and said, Of what had been, and might have been,
And who was changed, and who was dead;
And all that fills the hearts of friends,
When first they feel, with secret pain, Their lives thenceforth have separate ends,
And never can be one again ;
The first slight swerving of heart,
That words are powerless to express,
And leave it still unsaid in part,
Or say it in too great excess.
The very tones in which we spake
Had something strange, I could but mark; The leaves of memory seemed to make
A mournful rustling in the dark.
Oft died the words upon our lips,
As suddenly, from out the fire Built of the wreck of stranded ships,
The flames would leap and then expire.
And, as their splendor flashed and failed,
We thought of wrecks upon the main, Of ships dismasted, that were hailed
And sent no answer back again.
The windows, rattling in their frames,
The ocean, roaring up the beach, The gusty blast, the bickering flames,
All mingled vaguely in our speech ;
Until they made themselves a part
Of fancies floating through the brain, The long-lost ventures of the heart,
That send no answers back again.
O flames that glowed ! O hearts that yearned !
They were indeed too much akin,
The thoughts that burned and glowed within.
THERE is no flock, however watched and tended,
But one dead lamb is there!
But has one vacant chair !
The air is full of farewells to the dying,
And mournings for the dead;
Will not be comforted !
Let us be patient! These severe afflictions
Not from the ground arise,
Assume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;
Amid these earthly damps
May be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no Death! What seems so is transition;
This life of mortal breath
Whose portal we call Death.