Three Sunsets and Other Poems Part 4

"Reeling sinks the fated bark To her tomb beneath the wave: Must he perish in the dark-- Not a hand stretched out to save?

"See the spirits, how they crowd!

Watching death with eyes that burn!

Waves rush in----" she shrieks aloud, Ere her waking sense return.

The storm is gone: the skies are clear: Hush'd is that bitter cry of pain: The only sound, that meets her ear, The heaving of the sullen main.

Though heaviness endure the night, Yet joy shall come with break of day: She shudders with a strange delight-- The fearful dream is pa.s.s'd away.

She wakes: the grey dawn streaks the dark: With early song the copses ring: Far off she hears the watch-dog bark A joyful bark of welcoming!

_Feb. 23, 1857._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

AFTER THREE DAYS.

I stood within the gate Of a great temple, 'mid the living stream Of worshipers that thronged its regal state Fair-pictured in my dream.

Jewels and gold were there; And floors of marble lent a crystal sheen To body forth, as in a lower air, The wonders of the scene.

Such wild and lavish grace Had whispers in it of a coming doom; As richest flowers lie strown about the face Of her that waits the tomb.

The wisest of the land Had gathered there, three solemn trysting-days, For high debate: men stood on either hand To listen and to gaze.

The aged brows were bent, Bent to a frown, half thought, and half annoy, That all their stores of subtlest argument Were baffled by a boy.

In each averted face I marked but scorn and loathing, till mine eyes Fell upon one that stirred not in his place, Tranced in a dumb surprise.

Surely within his mind Strange thoughts are born, until he doubts the lore Of those old men, blind leaders of the blind, Whose kingdom is no more.

Surely he sees afar A day of death the stormy future brings; The crimson setting of the herald-star That led the Eastern kings.

Thus, as a sunless deep Mirrors the shining heights that crown the bay, So did my soul create anew in sleep The picture seen by day.

Gazers came and went-- A restless hum of voices marked the spot-- In varying shades of critic discontent Prating they knew not what.

"Where is the comely limb, The form attuned in every perfect part, The beauty that we should desire in him?"

Ah! Fools and slow of heart!

Look into those deep eyes, Deep as the grave, and strong with love divine; Those tender, pure, and fathomless mysteries, That seem to pierce through thine.

Look into those deep eyes, Stirred to unrest by breath of coming strife, Until a longing in thy soul arise That this indeed were life:

That thou couldst find Him there, Bend at His sacred feet thy willing knee, And from thy heart pour out the pa.s.sionate prayer "Lord, let me follow Thee!"

But see the crowd divide: Mother and sire have found their lost one now: The gentle voice, that fain would seem to chide Whispers "Son, why hast thou"--

In tone of sad amaze-- "Thus dealt with us, that art our dearest thing?

Behold, thy sire and I, three weary days, Have sought thee sorrowing."

And I had stayed to hear The loving words "How is it that ye sought?"-- But that the sudden lark, with matins clear, Severed the links of thought.

Then over all there fell Shadow and silence; and my dream was fled, As fade the phantoms of a wizard's cell When the dark charm is said.

Yet, in the gathering light, I lay with half-shut eyes that would not wake, Lovingly clinging to the skirts of night For that sweet vision's sake.

_Feb. 16, 1861._

[Ill.u.s.tration]

FACES IN THE FIRE.

The night creeps onward, sad and slow: In these red embers' dying glow The forms of Fancy come and go.

An island-farm--broad seas of corn Stirred by the wandering breath of morn-- The happy spot where I was born.

The picture fadeth in its place: Amid the glow I seem to trace The shifting semblance of a face.

'Tis now a little childish form-- Red lips for kisses pouted warm-- And elf-locks tangled in the storm.

'Tis now a grave and gentle maid, At her own beauty half afraid, Shrinking, and willing to be stayed.

Oh, Time was young, and Life was warm, When first I saw that fairy-form, Her dark hair tossing in the storm.

And fast and free these pulses played, When last I met that gentle maid-- When last her hand in mine was laid.

Those locks of jet are turned to gray, And she is strange and far away That might have been mine own to-day--

That might have been mine own, my dear, Through many and many a happy year-- That might have sat beside me here.

Ay, changeless through the changing scene, The ghostly whisper rings between, The dark refrain of 'might have been.'

The race is o'er I might have run: The deeds are past I might have done; And sere the wreath I might have won.

Sunk is the last faint flickering blaze: The vision of departed days Is vanished even as I gaze.

The pictures, with their ruddy light, Are changed to dust and ashes white, And I am left alone with night.