Part 7 (1/2)

But who is this? Oh, who is this that stands Straight in my path, and with his bony hands Appeals to me to turn some other way?

III.

It is the phantom of my murder'd joy, Which once again has come to persecute, And tell me tales which late I did refute.

But lo! I now must heed them, as a boy Takes up, in tears, the remnants of a toy, Or bard forlorn the fragments of a lute.

IV.

It is the ghost that, day by day, did come To tempt my spirit to the mountain-peak; It is the thing that wept, and would not speak, And, with a sign, to show that it was dumb, Did seem to hint at Death that was the sum Of all we know, and all we strive to seek.

V.

And now it comes again, and with its eye Bloodshot and blear, though pallid in its face, Doth point, exacting, to the very place Where I do keep, that no one may descry, A lady's glove, a ribbon, and a dry, A perjur'd rose, which oft I did embrace.

VI.

It means, perchance, that I must make an end Of all these things, and burn them as a fee To my Despair, when down upon my knee.

O piteous thing! have pity; be my friend; Or say, at least, that blessings will descend On her I love, on her if not on me!

VII.

The Shape did smile; and, wildly, with a start, Did shrivel up, as when a fire is spent, Whereof the smoke obscured the firmament.

And then I knew it had but tried my heart, To teach me how to play a manly part, And strengthen me in all my good intent.

VIII.

And here I stand alone, e'en like a leaf In sudden frost, as quiet as the wing Of wounded bird, which knows it cannot sing.

A child may moan, but not a mountain chief.

If we be sad, if we possess a grief, The grief should be the slave, and not the king.

IX.

Yes, I will pause, and pluck from out the Past The full discernment of my sorry cheer, And why the sunlight seems no longer clear, And why, in spite of anguish, and the vast, The sickly blank that o'er my life is cast, I cannot kneel to-day, or shed a tear.

X.

It was thy friends.h.i.+p. It was this I had, This and no more. I was a fool to doubt, I was a fool to strive to put to rout My many foes:--thy musings tender-glad, Which all had said:--”Avoid him! he is mad-- Mad with his love, and Love's erratic shout.”

XI.

I should have known,--I should have guess'd in time,-- That, like a soft mirage at twilight hour, My dream would melt, and rob me of its dower.

I should have guess'd that all the heights sublime, Which look'd like spires and cities built in rhyme, Would droop and die, like petals from a flower.