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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE EARLY LOST by DAVID MACBETH MOIR

First Line: FARE-THEE-WELL, FAIR FLOWER, THAT OPENING
Last Line: PASS'D, TO MINGLE IN THE CLAY!
Subject(s): CHILDREN; CHILDHOOD;
I.

FARE-THEE-WELL, fair flower, that opening
To the genial smile of day,
By the storm-blast, in a twinkling,
From our sight wert swept away!
Never more thy voice shall cheer us,
Never more thy form be seen,
In our solitude we startle
But to think that thou hast been!

II.

Now the sun illumes our dwelling,
Sings the bird, and buds the tree;
Nature starts as from her slumber,
But no wakening rouseth thee!
Never more for thee the morning
Shall its golden gates unfold;
Past alike are joy and sorrow,
Summer's heat and winter's cold.

III.

Vainly would our tears restore thee—
Thou art now a thing of yore.
Waves, that lull the ear with music,
Melt for ever on the shore;
Yet at eve, when sings the tame bird,
By thy hand once duly fed,
Seem its notes not nature's wailing
Over thee, the early dead?

IV.

Softly, softly gleam'd thy ringlets,
Braided in their auburn hue;
Keenly, keenly lustre darted
From thine eyes of floating blue;
Now the mould lies scatter'd o'er thee,
And, with deep and dirge-like tone,
Pipes at eve the haunting blackbird,
O'er thy mansion, low and lone.

V.

Dark, anon, shall storms be rolling,
Through the waned autumnal sky,
Winds be raving, waves be roaring,
Sullen deep to deep reply,
Winter shall resume his sceptre
O'er the desolated earth;
But no more wilt thou, like sunlight,
Brighten up our cheerless hearth.

VI.

When around that hearth we gather,
Jocund mirth no more beguiles;
Up we gaze upon thy picture,
Which looks down on us—and smiles;
And we sigh, when, in our chambers,
On the couch our limbs we lay,
That the churchyard grass is waving.
Lonely, o'er thy silent clay!

VII.

Why our mourning? We lament not,
Even although our hearts be riven,
That in being's sunny spring-time,
Thou wert snatch'd from earth to Heaven:
Life to thee was still enchantment,
And 'twas spared thy heart to know,
That the beams of mortal pleasure
Always sink in clouds of woe.

VIII.

Fare-thee-well, then! Time may bring us
Other friends; but none like thee,
Who, in thy peculiar beauty,
Wert, what we no more shall see:
From our ears seraphic music
In thy voice hath died away;
From our eyes a glorious vision
Pass'd, to mingle in the clay!



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