Had pour'd a worthier love; now, all o'erworn
By its deep thirst for something too divine,
It hath but fitful music to bestow,
Echoes of harp-strings, broken long ago.
Yet even in youth companionless I stood,
As a lone forest-bird 'midst ocean's foam;
For me the silver cords of brotherhood
Were early loosed; the voices from my home
Pass'd one by one, and Melody and Mirth
Left me a dreamer by a silent hearth.
But with the fulness of a heart that burn'd
For the deep sympathies of mind, I turn'd
From that unanswering spot, and fondly sought
In all wild scenes with thrilling murmurs fraught,
In every still small voice and sound of power,
And flute-note of the wind through cave and bower,
A perilous delight!-for then first woke
My life's lone passion, the mysterious quest
Of secret knowledge; and each tone that broke
From the wood-arches or the fountain's breast,
Making my quick soul vibrate as a lyre,
But minister'd to that strange inborn fire.
'Midst the bright silence of the mountain-dells,
In noontide hours or golden summer-eves,
My thoughts have burst forth as a gale that swells
Into a rushing blast, and from the leaves
Shakes out response; -O thou rich world unseen!
Thou curtain'd realm of spirits!-Thus my cry
Hath troubled air and silence-dost thou lie
Spread all around, yet by some filmy screen
Shut from us ever?-The resounding woods,
Do their depths teem with marvels?—and the floods,
And the pure fountains, leading secret veins
Of quenchless melody through rock and hill,
Have they bright dwellers?-are their lone domains
Peopled with beauty, which may never still
Our weary thirst of soul?-Cold, weak and cold,
Is Earth's vain language, piercing not one fold
Of our deep being!-Oh, for gifts more high!
For a seer's glance to rend mortality!
For a charm'd rod, to call from each dark shrine,
The oracles divine!
I woke from those high fantasies, to know
My kindred with the Earth-I woke to love;
O, gentle Friend! to love in doubt and woe,
Shutting the heart the worshipp'd name above,
Is to love deeply-and my spirit's dower
Was a sad gift, a melancholy power
Of so adoring;-with a buried care,
And with the o'erflowing of a voiceless prayer,
And with a deepening dream, that day by day,
In the still shadow of its lonely sway,
Folded me closer;-till the world held naught
Save the one Being to my central thought.
There was no music but his voice to hear,
No joy but such as with his step drew near;
Light was but where he look'd-life where he moved—
Silently, fervently, thus, thus I loved.
Oh! but such love is fearful!-and I knew
Its gathering doom:-the soul's prophetic sight
Even then unfolded in my breast, and threw
O'er all things round, a full, strong, vivid light,
Too sorrowfully clear!-an under-tone
Was given to Nature's harp, for me alone
Whispering of grief.-Of grief?-be strong, awake!
Hath not thy love been victory, O, my soul?
Hath not its conflict won a voice to shake
Death's fastnesses?-a magic to control
Worlds far removed?- from o'er the grave to thee
Love hath made answer; and thy tale should be ́
Sung like a lay of triumph!-Now return,
And take thy treasure from its bosom'd urn,
And lift it once to light!
I said I loved-but yet a heavenly strain
Of sweetness floated down the tearful stream,
A joy flash'd through the trouble of my dream!
I knew myself beloved!-we breathed no vow,
No mingling visions might our fate allow,
As unto happy hearts; but still and deep,
Like a rich jewel gleaming in a grave,
Like golden sand in some dark river's wave,
So did my soul that costly knowledge keep
So jealously!-a thing o'er which to shed,
When stars alone beheld the drooping head,
Lone tears! yet ofttimes burden'd with th' excess
Of our strange nature's quivering happiness.
But, oh! sweet Friend! we dream not of love's might
Till Death has robed with soft and solemn light
The image we enshrine!- Before that hour,
We have but glimpses of the o'ermastering power
Within us laid!-then doth the spirit-flame
With sword-like lightning rend its mortal frame;
The wings of that which pants to follow fast,
Shake their clay-bars, as with a prison'd blast,-
The sea is in our souls!
On whom my lone devotedness was cast!
I might not keep one vigil by his side,
I, whose wrung heart watch'd with him to the last!
I might not once his fainting head sustain,
Nor bathe his parch'd lips in the hour of pain,
Nor say to him, "Farewell!"-He pass'd away-
O! had my love been there, its conquering sway
Had won him back from death!—but thus removed,
Borne o'er the abyss no sounding-line hath proved,
Join'd with the unknown, the viewless, he became
Unto my thoughts another, yet the same-
Changed-hallow'd-glorified!-and his low grave
Seem'd a bright mournful altar-mine, all mine:-
Brother and Friend soon left me that sole shrine,
The birthright of the faithful!-their world's wave
Soon swept them from its brink.-Oh! deem thou not
That on the sad and consecrated spot
My soul grew weak!-I tell thee that a power
There kindled heart and lip!—-a fiery shower
My words were made; a might was given to
And a strong grasp to passionate despair,
And a dread triumph!-Know'st thou what I sought? For what high boon my struggling spirit wrought?
-Communion with the dead!-I sent a cry
Through the veil'd empires of eternity,
A voice to cleave them! By the mournful truth,
By the lost promise of my blighted youth,
By the strong chain a mighty love can bind
On the beloved, the spell of mind o'er mind;
By words, which in themselves are magic high,
Arm'd, and inspired, and wing'd with agony;
By tears, which comfort not, but burn, and seem
To bear the heart's blood in their passion-stream;
I summon'd, I adjured!—with quicken'd sense,
With the keen vigil of a life intense,
I watch'd, an answer from the winds to wring,
I listen'd, if perchance the stream might bring
Token from worlds afar: I taught one sound
Unto a thousand echoes: one profound
Imploring accent to the tomb, the sky;
One prayer to night,—“Awake, appear, reply!”
Hast thou been told that from the viewless bourne,
The dark way never hath allow'd return?
That all, which tears can move, with life is fled,
That earthly love is powerless on the dead?
Believe it not!-there is a large lone star,
Now burning o'er yon western hill afar,
And under its clear light there lies a spot,
Which well might utter forth-Believe it not!
I sat beneath that planet,—I had wept
My woe to stillness; every night-wind slept;
A hush was on the hills; the very streams
Went by like clouds, or noiseless founts in dreams,
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