Part 1 (2/2)
We both are pilgrims, wild and winding river!
Both wandering onward to the boundless West-- But thou art given by the good All-giver, Blessing a land to be in turn most blest:[2]
While, like a leaf-borne insect, floating by, Chanceful and changeful is my destiny; I needs must follow where thy currents lave-- Perchance to find a home, or else, perchance a grave.
II.
Yet, dost thou bear me on to one I've loved From Boyhood's thoughtlessness to Manhood's thought, In all the changes of our lives, unmoved-- That young affection no regret has brought: Beloved one! when I seem Fortune's slave, Reckless and wrecked upon the wayward wave, Bright Hope, the Halcyon, rises o'er the sea, Calming the troubled wave--bearing my heart to thee.
III.
Alas! we parted: what a bitter sorrow Clings to the memory of our last embrace!
No joy to-day, no promise of to-morrow, No idol image, shall usurp thy place: For thee my holiest hope is upward given-- My love for thee is with my love for Heav'n, A dedication of my heart to thine, With G.o.d to smile on both, and consecrate the shrine.
IV.
Our home, when last I saw it, was all lone; Yet my affections peopled it with those Whose sunny smile upon my boyhood shone; Then came reality,--the heart-spring froze:-- There was the stream, the willow, and the wild wood, Where, emulous of height, in playing childhood, With hearts encircled, on the beechen tree, Dear one, I carved thy name, but then thou wert with me.
V.
Thou wert my nurse in many an hour of pain, My comforter in many an hour of sadness; And when my spirit leaped to joy again, Thou wert the one who joyed most in its gladness.
Ay, more than nurse--and more than comforter-- Thou taught'st my erring spirit not to err, Gave it a softness nature had not given, As now the blessed moon makes earth resemble heav'n.
VI.
How deep the bitterness alone to grieve In grief's deep hour--the death-watch of the night-- When Fancy can no more her day dreams weave, And there seems madness in the moon's pale light-- When sorrow holds us, like a life-long state, Not as a portion, but the whole of fate, When the mind yields, like sick men to their dreams, Who know all is not right, yet know not that which seems.
VII.
Why come such thoughts across the brow? Oh, why Cannot the soul sit firmly on her throne, And keep beside her strong Philosophy?
Alas! I am a wanderer and alone.
Beneath deep feeling reason's self must sink; We cannot change the thought, yet we _must_ think; And, O! how darkly come such thoughts to me-- The gathered pangs of years, recounting agony.
VIII.
Who has not felt, in such a night as this, The glory and the greatness of a G.o.d, And bowed his head, in humbleness, to kiss His merciful and kindly chast'ning rod?
The far off stars! how beautiful and bright!
Peace seems abroad upon the world to-night; And e'en the bubble, dancing on the stream, Is glittering with hope,--a dream--a very dream!
IX.
In sickness and in sorrow, how the breast Will garner its affections in their home!
Like stricken bird that cowers within its nest, And feels no more an anxiousness to roam; While a thick darkness, like a cloud, comes o'er The gallant spirit;--it can rise no more To wing its way, as if it sought the sky, But falls to earth, forlorn, as though it fell to die.
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