Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, COME AND GONE, by EBENEZER ELLIOTT


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

COME AND GONE, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: The silent moonbeams on the drifted snow
Last Line: Dug edwin's grave.
Alternate Author Name(s): Corn-law Rhymer; Elliot, Ebenezer
Subject(s): Death; Dead, The


THE silent moonbeams on the drifted snow
Shine cold, and pale, and blue,
While through the cottage-door the yule log's glow
Cast on the iced oak's trunk and gray rock's brow
A ruddy hue.

The red ray and the blue, distinct and fair,
Like happy groom and bride,
With azured green, and emerald-orange glare,
Gilding the icicles from branches bare,
Lie side by side.

The door is open, and the fire burns bright,
And Hannah at the door,
Stands -- through the clear, cold moon'd, and starry night,
Gazing intently towards the scarce-seen height,
O'er the white moor.

'T is Christmas eve! and, from the distant town,
Her pale apprenticed son
Will to his heart-sick mother hasten down,
And snatch his hour of annual transport -- flown
Ere well begun.

The Holy Book unread upon his knee,
Old Alfred watcheth calm;
Till Edwin comes, no solemn prayer prays he,
Till Edwin comes, the text he cannot see,
Nor chant the psalm.

And comes he not? Yea, from the wind-swept hill
The cottage-fire he sees;
While of the past remembrance drinks her fill
Crops childhood's flowers, and bids the unfrozen rill
Shine through green trees.

In thought, he hears the bee hum o'er the moor;
In thought, the sheep-boy's call;
In thought, he meets his mother at the door;
In thought, he hears his father, old and poor,
"Thank God for all."

His sister he beholds, who died when he,
In London bound, wept o'er
Her last sad letter; vain her prayer to see
Poor Edwin yet again: -- he ne'er will be
Her playmate more!

No more with her will hear the bittern boom
At evening's dewy close!
No more with her will wander where the broom
Contends in beauty with the hawthorn bloom
And budding rose!

Oh, love is strength! love, with divine control,
Recalls us when we roam!
In living light it bids the dimm'd eye roll,
And gives a dove's wing to the fainting soul,
And bears it home.

Home! -- that sweet word hath turn'd his pale lip red,
Relumed his fireless eye;
Again the morning o'er his cheek is spread;
The early rose, that seem'd for ever dead,
Returns to die.

Home! home! -- Behold the cottage of the moor,
That hears the sheep-boy's call!
And Hannah meets him at the open door
With faint fond scream; and Alfred, old and poor,
"Thanks God for all!"

His lip is on his mother's; to her breast
She clasps him, heart to heart;
His hands between his father's hands are press'd;
They sob with joy, caressing and caressed:
How soon to part!

Why should they know that thou so soon, O Death!
Wilt pluck him, like a weed?
Why fear consumption in his quick-drawn breath?
Why dread the hectic flower, which blossometh
That worms may feed?

They talk of other days, when, like the birds,
He cull'd the wild flower's bloom,
And roam'd the moorland, with the houseless herds;
They talk of Jane's sad prayer, and her last words,
"Is Edwin come?"

He wept. But still, almost till morning beamed,
They talk'd of Jane -- then slept.
But, though he slept, his eyes, half-open, gleam'd;
For still of dying Jane her brother dream'd,
And, dreaming, wept.

At mid-day he arose, in tears, and sought
The churchyard where she lies.
He found her name beneath the snow-wreath wrought;
Then from her grave a knot of grass he brought,
With tears and sighs.

The hour of parting came, when feelings deep
In the heart's depth awake.
To his sad mother, pausing oft to weep,
He gave a token, which he bade her keep
For Edwin's sake.

It was a grassy sprig, and auburn tress,
Together twined and tied.
He left them, then, for ever! could they less
Than bless and love that type of tenderness? --
Childless they died!

Long in their hearts a cherish'd thought they wore;
And till their latest breath,
Bless'd him, and kiss'd his last gift o'er and o'er;
But they beheld their Edwin's face no more
In life or death!

For where the upheaved sea of trouble foams,
And sorrow's billows rave,
Men, in the wilderness of myriad homes,
Far from the desert, where the wild flock roams,
Dug Edwin's grave.





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