I. IT is most sad to see—to know This world so full of war and woe, E'er since our parents failing duty, Bequeathed the curse to all below, And left the burning breach of beauty. Where the flower hath fairest hue, Where the breeze hath balmiest breath, Where the dawn hath softest dew, Where the heaven hath deepest blue, There is death. Where the gentle streams of thinking, Through our hearts that flow so free, Have the deepest, softest sinking And the fullest melody; Where the crown of hope is nearest, Where the voice of joy is clearest, Where the heart of youth is lightest, Where the light of love is brightest, There is death. II. It is the hour when day's delight Fadeth in the dewy sorrow Of the star inwoven night; And the red lips of the west Are in smiles of lightning drest, Speaking of a lovely morrow: But there's an eye in which, from far, The chill beams of the evening star Do softly move, and mildly quiver; Which, ere the purple mountains meet The light of morning's misty feet, Will be dark—and dark for ever. III. It was within a convent old, Through her lips the low breath sighing, Which the quick pains did unfold With a paleness calm, but cold, Lay a lovely lady dying. As meteors from the sunless north Through long low clouds illume the air, So brightly shone her features forth Amidst her darkly tangled hair; And, like a spirit, still and slow, A light beneath that raven veil Moved,—where the blood forgot to glow, As moonbeams shine on midnight snow, So dim,—so sad,—so pale. And, ever as the death came nearer, That melancholy light waxed clearer: It rose, it shone, it never dwindled, As if in death it could not die; The air was filled with it, and kindled As souls are by sweet agony. Where once the life was rich and red, The burning lip was dull and dead, As crimson cloud-streaks melt away, Before a ghastly darkened day. Faint and low the pulses faded, One by one, from brow and limb; There she lay—her dark eyes shaded By her fingers dim; And through their paly brightness burning With a wild inconstant motion, As reflected stars of morning Through the crystal foam of ocean. There she lay—like something holy, Moveless—voiceless, breathing slowly, Passing, withering, fainting, failing, Lulled and lost and unbewailing. IV. The abbess knelt beside, to bless Her parting hour with tenderness, And watched the light of life depart, With tearful eye and weary heart; And, ever and anon, would dip Her fingers in the hallowed water, And lay it on her parching lip, Or cross her death damped brow; And softly whisper,—Peace,—my daughter, For thou shalt slumber softly now. And upward held, with pointing finger, The cross before her darkening eye; Its glance was changing, nor did linger Upon the ebon and ivory; Her lips moved feebly, and the air Between them whispered—not with prayer! Oh! who shall know what wild and deep Imaginations rouse from sleep, Within that heart, whose quick decay So soon shall sweep them all away. Oh! who shall know what things they be That tongue would tell—that glance doth see; Which rouse the voice, the vision fill, Ere eye be dark, and tongue be still. V. It is most fearful when the light Of thoughts, all beautiful and bright, That through the heart's illumination Darts burning beams and fiery flashes, Fades into weak wan animation, And darkens into dust and ashes; And hopes, that to the heart have been As to the forest is its green, (Or as the gentle passing by Of its spirits' azure wings Is to the broad, wind-wearied sky); Do pale themselves like fainting things, And wither, one by one, away, Leaving a ghastly silence where Their voice was wont to move and play Amidst the fibres of our feeling, Like the low and unseen stealing, Of the soft and sultry air; That, with its fingers weak unweaves The dark and intertangled hair, Of many moving forest leaves; And, though their life be lost do float, Around us still, yet far remote, And come at the same call arranged, By the same thoughts, but oh, how changed! Alas! dead hopes are fearful things, To dwell around us, for their eyes Pierce through our souls like adder stings; Vampyre-like their troops arise, Each in his own death entranced, Frozen and corpse-countenanced; Filling memory's maddened eye With a shadowed mockery. And a wan and fevered vision, Of her loved and lost Elysian; Until we hail, and love, and bless The last strange joy, where joy hath fled, The last one hope, where hope is dead, The finger of forgetfulness; Which, dark as night, and dull as lead, Comes across the spirit passing, Like a coldness through night air, With its withering wings effacing Thoughts that lived or lingered there; Light, and life, and joy, and pain, Till the frozen heart rejoices, As the echoes of lost voices Die and do not rise again; And shadowy memories wake no more Along the hearts' deserted shore; But fall and faint away and sicken, Like a nation fever-stricken, And see not from the bosom reft The desolation they have left. VI. Yet, though that trance be still and deep, It will be broken ere its sleep Be dark and unawaked—forever; And from the soul quick thoughts will leap Forth like a sad, sweet-singing river, Whose gentle waves flow softly o'er That broken heart,—that desert shore; The lamp of life leaps up before Its light be lost to live no more; Ere yet its shell of clay be shattered, And all the beams at once could pour, In dust of death be darkly scattered. VII. Alas! the stander-by might tell That lady's racking thoughts too well; The work within he might descry By trembling brow, and troubled eye, That as the lightning fiery, fierce, Strikes chasms along the keen ice plain; The barbed and burning memories pierce Her dark and dying brain. And many mingled visions swim Within the convent chamber dim; The sad twilight whose lingering lines Fall faintly through the forest pines, And with their dusky radiance lume That lowly bed and lonely room, Are filled, before her earnest gaze, With dazzling dreams of by-gone days. They come, they come, a countless host, Forms long unseen, and looks long lost, And voices loved,—not well forgot, Awake and seem, with accents dim, Along the convent air to float; That innocent air that knoweth not, A sound except the vesper hymn. VIII. 'Tis past, that rush of hurried thought, The light within her deep dark eye Was quenched by a wan tear mistily, Which trembled though it lightened not, As the cold peace, which all may share, Soothed the last sorrow life could bear. What grief was that, the broken heart Loved to the last, and would not part? What grief was that, whose calmness cold By death alone could be consoled? As the soft hand of coming rest Bowed her fair head upon her breast, As the last pulse decayed, to keep Her heart from heaving in its sleep, The silence of her voice was broken, As by a gasp of mental pain; May the faith thou hast forgotten Bind thee with its broken chain." The Abbess raised her, but in vain; For, as the last faint word was spoken, The silver cord was burst in twain, The golden bowl was broken. |