Classic and Contemporary Poetry
TO THE MEMORY OF A YOUNG LADY, by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY Poet Analysis Poet's Biography First Line: Brilliant and beautiful! - and can it be Last Line: When, waking in his strength, he sunward soars. Subject(s): Death; Dead, The | ||||||||
BRILLIANT and beautiful! -- And can it be That in thy radiant eye there dwells no light -- Upon thy lips no sound? -- I little deemed At our last parting, when thy cheering voice Breathed the soul's harmony, what shadowy form Then rose between us, and with icy dart Wrote, "Ye shall meet no more." I little deemed That thy elastic step, Death's darkened vale Would tread before me. Friend, I shrink to say Farewell to thee. In youth's unclouded morn, We gaze on friendship as a graceful flower, And win it for our pleasure, or our pride. But when the stern realities of life Do clip the wings of fancy, and cold storms Rack the worn cordage of the heart, it breathes A healing essence, and a strengthening charm, Next to the hope of heaven. Such was thy love, Departed and deplored. Talents were thine, Lofty and bright, the subtle shaft of wit, And that keen glance of intellect which reads, Intuitive, the deep and mazy springs Of human action. Yet such meek regard For other's feelings, such a simple grace And singleness of purpose, such respect To woman's noiseless duties, sweetly bow'd, And tempered those high gifts, that every heart, Which feared their splendor, loved their goodness too. I see thy home of birth. Its pleasant halls Put on the garb of mourning. Sad and lone Are they who nursed thy virtues, and beheld Their bright expansion through each ripening year. To them the sacred name of daughter, blent All images of comforter and friend, The fire-side charmer, and the nurse of pain, Eyes to the blind, and, to the weary, wings. What shall console their sorrow, when young morn Upriseth in its beauty, but no smile Of filial love doth mark it? -- or when eve Sinks down in silence, and that tuneful tone, So long the treasure of their listening heart, Uttereth no music? Ah! -- so frail are we -- So like the brief ephemeron that wheels Its momentary round, we scarce can weep Our own bereavements, ere we haste to share The clay with those we mourn. A narrow point Divides our grief-sob from our pang of death: Down to the mouldering multitude we go, And all our anxious thoughts, our fevered hopes, The sorrowing burdens of our pilgrimage In deep oblivion rest. Then let the woes And joys of earth be to the deathless soul Like the spent dew-drop from the eagle's wing, When, waking in his strength, he sunward soars. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A FRIEND KILLED IN THE WAR by ANTHONY HECHT FOR JAMES MERRILL: AN ADIEU by ANTHONY HECHT TARANTULA: OR THE DANCE OF DEATH by ANTHONY HECHT CHAMPS D?ÇÖHONNEUR by ERNEST HEMINGWAY NOTE TO REALITY by TONY HOAGLAND COLUMBUS [JANUARY, 1487] by LYDIA HUNTLEY SIGOURNEY |
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