DIRGE. KNOWS he who tills this lonely field, To reap its scanty corn, What mystic fruit his acres yield In the long sunny afternoon, The plain was full of ghosts; I wandered up, I wandered down, The winding Concord gleamed below, Pouring as wide a flood As when my brothers, long ago, Came with me to the wood. But they are gone, the holy ones Who trod with me this lovely vale; The strong, star-bright companions Are silent, low, and pale. My good, my noble, in their prime, Who made this world the feast it was, Who learned with me the lore of time, Who loved this dwelling-place! They took this valley for their toy, A cell for prayer, a hall for joy, — They colored the horizon round; Stars flamed and faded as they bade; All echoes hearkened for their sound, I touch this flower of silken leaf, Which once our childhood knew; Its soft leaves wound me with a grief Whose balsam never grew. Hearken to yon pine-warbler Hearest thou, O traveller, What he singeth to me? Not unless God made sharp thine ear Out of that delicate lay could'st thou Its heavy tale divine. 'Go, lonely man,' it saith; 'They loved thee from their birth; Their hands were pure, and pure their faith, There are no such hearts on earth. 'Ye drew one mother's milk, One chamber held ye all; A very tender history Did in your childhood fall. 'Ye cannot unlock your heart, The key is gone with them; The silent organ loudest chants The master's requiem.' THRENODY. THE South-wind brings Life, sunshine, and desire, And on every mount and meadow But over the dead he has no power, I see my empty house, I see my trees repair their boughs; And he, the wondrous child, Whose silver warble wild Outvalued every pulsing sound Within the air's cerulean round, — |