Antique Greek Lament.[440]

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

I pine for thee through all the joyless day-- Through the long night I pine: the golden sun Looks dim since thou hast left me, and the spring Seems but to weep. Where art thou, my beloved? Night after night, in fond hope vigilant, By the old temple on the breezy cliff, These hands have heap’d the watch-fire, till it stream’d Red o’er the shining columns--darkly red Along the crested billows!--but in vain: Thy white sail comes not from the distant isles-- Yet thou wert faithful ever. Oh! the deep Hath shut above thy head--that graceful head; The sea-weed mingles with thy clustering locks; The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Where art thou?--where? Had I but lingering press’d On thy cold lips the last long kiss--but smooth’d The parted ringlets of thy shining hair With love’s fond touch, my heart’s cry had been still’d Into a voiceless grief: I would have strew’d With all the pale flowers of the vernal woods-- White violets, and the mournful hyacinth, And frail anemone, thy marble brow, In slumber beautiful! I would have heap’d Sweet boughs and precious odours on thy pyre, And with mine own shorn tresses hung thine urn, And many a garland of the pallid rose: But thou liest far away! No funeral chant, Save the wild moaning of the wave, is thine: No pyre--save, haply, some long-buried wreck; Thou that wert fairest--thou that wert most loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

Come, in the dreamy shadow of the night, And speak to me! E’en though thy voice be changed, My heart would know it still. Oh, speak to me! And say if yet, in some dim, far-off world, Which knows not how the festal sunshine burns, If yet, in some pale mead of asphodel, We two shall meet again! Oh, I would quit The day rejoicingly--the rosy light-- All the rich flowers and fountains musical, And sweet, familiar melodies of earth, To dwell with thee below! Thou answerest not! The powers whom I have call’d upon are mute: The voices buried in old whispery caves, And by lone river-sources, and amidst The gloom and mystery of dark prophet-oaks, The wood-gods’ haunt--they give me no reply! All silent--heaven and earth! For evermore From the deserted mountains thou art gone-- For ever from the melancholy groves, Whose laurels wail thee with a shivering sound! And I--I pine through all the joyous day, Through the long night I pine--as fondly pines The night’s own bird, dissolving her lorn life To song in moonlight woods. Thou hear’st me not! The heavens are pitiless of human tears: The deep sea-darkness is about thy head; The white sail never will bring back the loved!

By the blue waters--the restless ocean-waters, Restless as they with their many-flashing surges, Lonely I wander, weeping for my lost one!

The original title given to this poem was The Lament of Alcyone, which was altered to its present one, on the suggestion of a friend. It was written in November 1834.

THOUGHTS DURING SICKNESS.

INTELLECTUAL POWERS.

O Thought! O Memory! gems for ever heaping High in the illumined chambers of the mind-- And thou, divine Imagination! keeping Thy lamp’s lone star mid shadowy hosts enshrined; How in one moment rent and disentwined, At Fever’s fiery touch, apart they fall, Your glorious combinations! broken all, As the sand-pillars by the desert’s wind Scatter’d to whirling dust! Oh, soon uncrown’d! Well may your parting swift, your strange return, Subdue the soul to lowliness profound, Guiding its chasten’d vision to discern How by meek Faith heaven’s portals must be pass’d, Ere it can hold your gifts inalienably fast.

SICKNESS LIKE NIGHT.

Thou art like Night, O Sickness! deeply stilling Within my heart the world’s disturbing sound, And the dim quiet of my chamber filling With low, sweet voices by Life’s tumult drown’d. Thou art like awful Night! thou gatherest round The things that are unseen--though close they lie; And with a truth, clear, startling, and profound, Giv’st their dread presence to our mental eye. Thou art like starry, spiritual Night! High and immortal thoughts attend thy way, And revelations, which the common light Brings not, though wakening with its rosy ray All outward life:--Be welcome, then, thy rod, Before whose touch my soul unfolds itself to God.