And shall I take a thing so blind, Embrace her as my natural good: Or crush her like a vice of blood, Upon the threshold of the mind. IV O Sleep I give my powers away; My will is bondsman to the dark; I sit within a helmless bark; And with my heart I O heart, how fares it with thee now, Some pleasure from thy early years, All night below the darken'd eyes; With morning wakes the will and cries, "Thou shalt not be the fool of loss.' SOMETIMES hold it To put in words the grief For words, like Nature, And half conceal the Soul But, for the unquiet heart and brain, Like dull narcotics, numbing pain. VI NE writes, that Other friends remain'; That Loss is common to the race '-' And common is the complace, And vacant chaff well That loss is common would not make O father, wheresoe'er thou be, Who pledgest now thy gallant son; A shot, ere half thy draught be done, Hath still'd the life that beat from thee. O mother, praying God will save Thy sailor,-while thy head is bow'd His heavy-shotted hammock-shroud Drops in his vast and wandering grave. Ye know no more than I who wrought At that last hour to please him well; Who mused on all I had to tell, And something written, something thought; Expecting still his advent home; And ever met him on his way With wishes, thinking, 'here to-day,' Or here to-morrow will he come.' O somewhere, meek, unconscious dove, And thinking 'this will please him best,' She takes a riband or a rose; For he will see them on to-night; And with the thought her colour burns; Once more to set a ringlet right. And, even when she turn'd, the curse Had fallen, and her future Lord Was drown'd in passing thro' the ford, Or kill'd in falling from his horse. O what to her shall be the end? And what remains to me of good? And unto me no second friend. VII ARK house, by which once more I stand Here in the long unlovely street, Doors, where my heart was used to beat So quickly, waiting for a A hand that can be clasp'd no more- He is not here; but far away The noise of life begins again, And ghastly thro' the drizzling rain On the bald street breaks the blank day. He saddens, all the magic light Dies off at once from bower and hall, And all the place is dark, and all The chambers emptied of delight: So find I every pleasant spot In which we two were wont to meet, The field, the chamber, and the street, For all is dark where thou art not. Yet as that other, wandering there In those deserted walks, may find O my forsaken heart, with thee |