Part 26 (1/2)

The violets on the hillock toss, The gravestone is o'ergrown with moss; For nature feels not any loss,-- But I am cheerless, Rosaline!

I did not know when thou wast dead; A blackbird whistling overhead Thrilled through my brain; I would have fled, But dared not leave thee, Rosaline!

The sun rolled down, and very soon, Like a great fire, the awful moon Rose, stained with blood, and then a swoon Crept chilly o'er me, Rosaline!

The stars came out; and, one by one, Each angel from his silver throne Looked down and saw what I had done; I dared not hide me, Rosaline!

I crouched; I feared thy corpse would cry Against me to G.o.d's quiet sky, I thought I saw the blue lips try To utter something, Rosaline!

I waited with a maddened grin To hear that voice all icy thin Slide forth and tell my deadly sin To h.e.l.l and heaven, Rosaline!

But no voice came, and then it seemed That, if the very corpse had screamed, The sound like suns.h.i.+ne glad had streamed Through that dark stillness, Rosaline!

And then, amid the silent night, I screamed with horrible delight, And in my brain an awful light Did seem to crackle, Rosaline!

It is my curse! sweet memories fall From me like snow,--and only all Of that one night, like cold worms crawl My doomed heart over, Rosaline!

Why wilt thou haunt me with thine eyes, Wherein such blessed memories, Such pitying forgiveness lies, Than hate more bitter, Rosaline?

Woe's me! I know that love so high As thine, true soul, could never die, And with mean clay in churchyard lie,-- Would it might be so, Rosaline!

1841.

THE SHEPHERD OF KING ADMETUS.

There came a youth upon the earth, Some thousand years ago, Whose slender hands were nothing worth, Whether to plough, or reap, or sow.

Upon an empty tortoise-sh.e.l.l He stretched some chords, and drew Music that made men's bosoms swell Fearless, or brimmed their eyes with dew.

Then King Admetus, one who had Pure taste by right divine, Decreed his singing not too bad To hear between the cups of wine:

And so, well-pleased with being soothed Into a sweet half-sleep, Three times his kingly beard he smoothed, And made him viceroy o'er his sheep.

His words were simple words enough, And yet he used them so, That what in other mouths was rough In his seemed musical and low.

Men called him but a s.h.i.+ftless youth, In whom no good they saw; And yet, unwittingly, in truth, They made his careless words their law.

They knew not how he learned at all, For idly, hour by hour, He sat and watched the dead leaves fall, Or mused upon a common flower.

It seemed the loveliness of things Did teach him all their use, For, in mere weeds, and stones, and springs, He found a healing power profuse.

Men granted that his speech was wise, But, when a glance they caught Of his slim grace and woman's eyes, They laughed, and called him good-for-naught.

Yet after he was dead and gone, And e'en his memory dim, Earth seemed more sweet to live upon, More full of love, because of him.

And day by day more holy grew Each spot where he had trod, Till after-poets only knew Their first-born brother as a G.o.d.