Threnody
The
south-wind
brings
Life,
sunshine,
and
desire,
And
on
every
mount
and
meadow
Breathes
aromatic
fire,
But
over
the
dead
he
has
no
power,
The
lost,
the
lost
he
cannot
restore,
And,
looking
over
the
hills,
I
mourn
The
darling
who
shall
not
return.
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,
The
hyacinthine
boy,
for
whom
Morn
well
might
break,
and
April
bloom,
The
gracious
boy,
who
did
adorn
The
world
whereinto
he
was
born,
And
by
his
countenance
repay
The
favor
of
the
loving
Day,
Has
disappeared
from
the
Day's
eye;
Far
and
wide
she
cannot
find
him,
My
hopes
pursue,
they
cannot
bind
him.
Returned
this
day
the
south-wind
searches
And
finds
young
pines
and
budding
birches,
But
finds
not
the
budding
man;
Nature
who
lost
him,
cannot
remake
him;
Fate
let
him
fall,
Fate
can't
retake
him;
Nature,
Fate,
men,
him
seek
in
vain.
And
whither
now,
my
truant
wise
and
sweet,
Oh,
whither
tend
thy
feet?
I
had
the
right,
few
days
ago,
Thy
steps
to
watch,
thy
place
to
know;
How
have
I
forfeited
the
right?
Hast
thou
forgot
me
in
a
new
delight?
I
hearken
for
thy
household
cheer,
O
eloquent
child!
Whose
voice,
an
equal
messenger,
Conveyed
thy
meaning
mild.
What
though
the
pains
and
joys
Whereof
it
spoke
were
toys
Fitting
his
age
and
ken;—
Yet
fairest
dames
and
bearded
men,
Who
heard
the
sweet
request
So
gentle,
wise,
and
grave,
Bended
with
joy
to
his
behest,
And
let
the
world's
affairs
go
by,
Awhile
to
share
his
cordial
game,
Or
mend
his
wicker
wagon
frame,
Still
plotting
how
their
hungry
ear
That
winsome
voice
again
might
hear,
For
his
lips
could
well
pronounce
Words
that
were
persuasions.
Gentlest
guardians
marked
serene
His
early
hope,
his
liberal
mien,
Took
counsel
from
his
guiding
eyes
To
make
this
wisdom
earthly
wise.
Ah!
vainly
do
these
eyes
recall
The
school-march,
each
day's
festival,
When
every
morn
my
bosom
glowed
To
watch
the
convoy
on
the
road;—
The
babe
in
willow
wagon
closed,
With
rolling
eyes
and
face
composed,
With
children
forward
and
behind,
Like
Cupids
studiously
inclined,
And
he,
the
Chieftain,
paced
beside,
The
centre
of
the
troop
allied,
With
sunny
face
of
sweet
repose,
To
guard
the
babe
from
fancied
foes,
The
little
Captain
innocent
Took
the
eye
with
him
as
he
went,
Each
village
senior
paused
to
scan
And
speak
the
lovely
caravan.
From
the
window
I
look
out
To
mark
thy
beautiful
parade
Stately
marching
in
cap
and
coat
To
some
tune
by
fairies
played;
A
music
heard
by
thee
alone
To
works
as
noble
led
thee
on.
Now
love
and
pride,
alas,
in
vain,
Up
and
down
their
glances
strain.
The
painted
sled
stands
where
it
stood,
The
kennel
by
the
corded
wood,
The
gathered
sticks
to
stanch
the
wall
Of
the
snow-tower,
when
snow
should
fall,
The
ominous
hole
he
dug
in
the
sand,
And
childhood's
castles
built
or
planned.
His
daily
haunts
I
well
discern,
The
poultry
yard,
the
shed,
the
barn,
And
every
inch
of
garden
ground
Paced
by
the
blessed
feet
around,
From
the
road-side
to
the
brook;
Whereinto
he
loved
to
look.
Step
the
meek
birds
where
erst
they
ranged,
The
wintry
garden
lies
unchanged,
The
brook
into
the
stream
runs
on,
But
the
deep-eyed
Boy
is
gone.
On
that
shaded
day,
Dark
with
more
clouds
than
tempests
are,
When
thou
didst
yield
thy
innocent
breath
In
bird-like
heavings
unto
death,
Night
came,
and
Nature
had
not
thee,—
I
said,
we
are
mates
in
misery.
The
morrow
dawned
with
needless
glow,
Each
snow-bird
chirped,
each
fowl
must
crow,
Each
tramper
started,—
but
the
feet
Of
the
most
beautiful
and
sweet
Of
human
youth
had
left
the
hill
And
garden,—they
were
bound
and
still,
There's
not
a
sparrow
or
a
wren,
There's
not
a
blade
of
autumn
grain,
Which
the
four
seasons
do
not
tend,
And
tides
of
life
and
increase
lend,
And
every
chick
of
every
bird,
And
weed
and
rock-moss
is
preferred.
O
ostriches'
forgetfulness!
O
loss
of
larger
in
the
less!
Was
there
no
star
that
could
be
sent,
No
watcher
in
the
firmament,
No
angel
from
the
countless
host,
That
loiters
round
the
crystal
coast,
Could
stoop
to
heal
that
only
child,
Nature's
sweet
marvel
undefiled,
And
keep
the
blossom
of
the
earth,
Which
all
her
harvests
were
not
worth?
Not
mine,
I
never
called
thee
mine,
But
nature's
heir,—
if
I
repine,
And,
seeing
rashly
torn
and
moved,
Not
what
I
made,
but
what
I
loved.
Grow
early
old
with
grief
that
then
Must
to
the
wastes
of
nature
go,—
'Tis
because
a
general
hope
Was
quenched,
and
all
must
doubt
and
grope
For
flattering
planets
seemed
to
say,
This
child
should
ills
of
ages
stay,—
By
wondrous
tongue
and
guided
pen
Bring
the
flown
muses
back
to
men.
—
Perchance,
not
he,
but
nature
ailed,
The
world,
and
not
the
infant
failed,
It
was
not
ripe
yet,
to
sustain
A
genius
of
so
fine
a
strain,
Who
gazed
upon
the
sun
and
moon
As
if
he
came
unto
his
own,
And
pregnant
with
his
grander
thought,
Brought
the
old
order
into
doubt.
Awhile
his
beauty
their
beauty
tried,
They
could
not
feed
him,
and
he
died,
And
wandered
backward
as
in
scorn
To
wait
an
Æon
to
be
born.
Ill
day
which
made
this
beauty
waste;
Plight
broken,
this
high
face
defaced!
Some
went
and
came
about
the
dead,
And
some
in
books
of
solace
read,
Some
to
their
friends
the
tidings
say,
Some
went
to
write,
some
went
to
pray,
One
tarried
here,
there
hurried
one,
But
their
heart
abode
with
none.
Covetous
death
bereaved
us
all
To
aggrandize
one
funeral.
The
eager
Fate
which
carried
thee
Took
the
largest
part
of
me.
For
this
losing
is
true
dying,
This
is
lordly
man's
down-lying,
This
is
slow
but
sure
reclining,
Star
by
star
his
world
resigning.
O
child
of
Paradise!
Boy
who
made
dear
his
father's
home
In
whose
deep
eyes
Men
read
the
welfare
of
the
times
to
come;
I
am
too
much
bereft;
The
world
dishonored
thou
hast
left;
O
truths
and
natures
costly
lie;
O
trusted,
broken
prophecy!
O
richest
fortune
sourly
crossed;
Born
for
the
future,
to
the
future
lost!
The
deep
Heart
answered,
Weepest
thou?
Worthier
cause
for
passion
wild,
If
I
had
not
taken
the
child.
And
deemest
thou
as
those
who
pore
With
aged
eyes
short
way
before?
Think'st
Beauty
vanished
from
the
coast
Of
matter,
and
thy
darling
lost?
Taught
he
not
thee,
—
the
man
of
eld,
Whose
eyes
within
his
eyes
beheld
Heaven's
numerous
hierarchy
span
The
mystic
gulf
from
God
to
man?
To
be
alone
wilt
thou
begin,
When
worlds
of
lovers
hem
thee
in?
To-morrow,
when
the
masks
shall
fall
That
dizen
nature's
carnival,
The
pure
shall
see,
by
their
own
will,
Which
overflowing
love
shall
fill,—
'Tis
not
within
the
force
of
Fate
The
fate-conjoined
to
separate.
But
thou,
my
votary,
weepest
thou?
I
gave
thee
sight,
where
is
it
now?
I
taught
thy
heart
beyond
the
reach
Of
ritual,
Bible,
or
of
speech;
Wrote
in
thy
mind's
transparent
table
As
far
as
the
incommunicable;
Taught
thee
each
private
sign
to
raise
Lit
by
the
supersolar
blaze.
Past
utterance
and
past
belief,
And
past
the
blasphemy
of
grief,
The
mysteries
of
nature's
heart,—
And
though
no
muse
can
these
impart,
Throb
thine
with
nature's
throbbing
breast,
And
all
is
clear
from
east
to
west.
I
came
to
thee
as
to
a
friend,
Dearest,
to
thee
I
did
not
send
Tutors,
but
a
joyful
eye,
Innocence
that
matched
the
sky,
Lovely
locks
a
form
of
wonder,
Laughter
rich
as
woodland
thunder;
That
thou
might'st
entertain
apart
The
richest
flowering
of
all
art;
And,
as
the
great
all-loving
Day
Through
smallest
chambers
takes
its
way,
That
thou
might'st
break
thy
daily
bread
With
Prophet,
Saviour,
and
head;
That
thou
might'st
cherish
for
thine
own
The
riches
of
sweet
Mary's
Son,
Boy-Rabbi,
Israel's
Paragon:
And
thoughtest
thou
such
guest
Would
in
thy
hall
take
up
his
rest?
Would
rushing
life
forget
its
laws,
Fate's
glowing
revolution
pause?
High
omens
ask
diviner
guess,
Not
to
be
conned
to
tediousness.
And
know,
my
higher
gifts
unbind
The
zone
that
girds
the
incarnate
mind,
When
the
scanty
shores
are
full
With
Thought's
perilous
whirling
pool,
When
frail
Nature
can
no
more,—
Then
the
spirit
strikes
the
hour,
My
servant
Death
with
solving
rite
Pours
finite
into
infinite.
Wilt
thou
freeze
love's
tidal
flow,
Whose
streams
through
nature
circling
go?
Nail
the
star
struggling
to
its
track
On
the
half-climbed
Zodiack?
Light
is
light
which
radiates,
Blood
is
blood
which
circulates,
Life
is
life
which
generates,
And
many-seeming
life
is
one,—
Wilt
thou
transfix
and
make
it
none,
Its
onward
stream
too
starkly
pent
In
figure,
bone,
and
lineament?
Wilt
thou
uncalled
interrogate
Talker!
the
unreplying
fate?
Nor
see
the
Genius
of
the
whole
Ascendant
in
the
private
soul,
Beckon
it
when
to
go
and
come,
Self-announced
its
hour
of
doom.
Fair
the
soul's
recess
and
shrine,
Magic-built,
to
last
a
season,
Masterpiece
of
love
benign!
Fairer
than
expansive
reason
Whose
omen
'tis,
and
sign.
Wilt
thou
not
ope
this
heart
to
know
What
rainbows
teach
and
sunsets
show,
Verdict
which
accumulates
From
lengthened
scroll
of
human
fates,
Voice
of
earth
to
earth
returned,
Prayers
of
heart
that
inly
burned;
Saying,
what
is
excellent,
As
God
lives,
is
permanent
Hearts
are
dust,
hearts'
loves
remain,
Heart's
love
will
meet
thee
again.
Revere
the
Maker;
fetch
thine
eye
Up
to
His
style,
and
manners
of
the
sky.
Not
of
adamant
and
gold
Built
He
heaven
stark
and
cold,
No,
but
a
nest
of
bending
reeds,
Flowering
grass
and
scented
weeds,
Or
like
a
traveller's
fleeting
tent,
Or
bow
above
the
tempest
pent,
Built
of
tears
and
sacred
flames,
And
virtue
reaching
to
its
aims;
Built
of
furtherance
and
pursuing,
Not
of
spent
deeds,
but
of
doing.
Silent
rushes
the
swift
Lord
Through
ruined
systems
still
restored,
Broad-sowing,
bleak
and
void
to
bless,
Plants
with
worlds
the
wilderness,
Waters
with
tears
of
ancient
sorrow
Apples
of
Eden
ripe
to-morrow;
House
and
tenant
go
to
ground,
Lost
in
God,
in
Godhead
found.
