Those flowers that say (ah, hear them now!) To the night-winds as they pass, "Ai! ai! alas-alas !" Pores for a moment, ere it go, On the clear waters there that flow, Then sinks within (weigh'd down by woe) The uncertain, shadowy heaven below. The lady sleeps: oh! may her sleep As it is lasting so be deep No icy worms about her creep: I pray to God that she may lie For ever with as calm an eye, That chamber chang'd for one more holy That bed for one more melancholy. Far in the forest, dim and old, For her may some tall vault unfold, Against whose sounding door she hath thrown, In childhood, many an idle stone— Some tomb, which oft hath flung its black And vampire-winged panels back, Flutt'ring triumphant o'er the palls Of her old family funerals. A PÆAN. How shall the burial rite be read? The requiem for the loveliest dead, Her friends are gazing on her, And on her gaudy bier, And weep!-oh! to dishonour Dead beauty with a tear! They loved her for her wealth And they hated her for her pride But she grew in feeble health, And they love her-that she died. They tell me (while they speak Of her "costly-broider'd pall") That my voice is growing weak That I should not sing at all— Or that my tone should be Tun'd to such solemn song, So mournfully-so mournfully, That the dead may feel no wrong. But she is gone above, With young Hope at her side, And I am drunk with love Of the dead, who is my bride Of the dead-dead who lies All perfum'd there, With the death upon her eyes, And the life upon her hair, Thus on the coffin loud and long I strike--the murmur sent Through the gray chambers to my song, Shall be the accompaniment. Thou diedst in thy life's June— But thou didst not die too fair : Thou didst not die too soon, Nor with too calm an air. From more than friends on earth, Thy life and love are riven, To join the untainted mirth Of more than throne's in heaven Therefore, to thee this night With a Pean of old days. |