The Golden Treasury of American Songs and Lyrics Part 4

Ah, dream too bright to last!

Ah, starry Hope, that didst arise But to be overcast!

A voice from out the Future cries, "On! on!"--but o'er the Past (Dim gulf!) my spirit hovering lies Mute, motionless, aghast.

For, alas! alas! with me The light of Life is o'er!

No more--no more--no more-- (Such language holds the solemn sea To the sands upon the sh.o.r.e) Shall bloom the thunder-blasted tree, Or the stricken eagle soar.

And all my days are trances, And all my nightly dreams Are where thy gray eye glances, And where thy footstep gleams,-- In what ethereal dances, By what eternal streams.

E.A. POE.

On the Death of Joseph Rodman Drake.

Green be the turf above thee, Friend of my better days!

None knew thee but to love thee, Nor named thee but to praise.

Tears fell when thou wert dying, From eyes unused to weep, And long, where thou art lying, Will tears the cold turf steep.

When hearts, whose truth was proven, Like thine, are laid in earth, There should a wreath be woven To tell the world their worth;

And I, who woke each morrow To clasp thy hand in mine, Who shared thy joy and sorrow, Whose weal and woe were thine,

It should be mine to braid it Around thy faded brow, But I've in vain essayed it, And feel I cannot now.

While memory bids me weep thee, Nor thoughts nor words are free, The grief is fixed too deeply That mourns a man like thee.

F.G. HALLECK.

The Valley of Unrest.

Once it smiled a silent dell Where the people did not dwell; They had gone unto the wars, Trusting to the mild-eyed stars, Nightly, from their azure towers, To keep watch above the flowers, In the midst of which all day The red sunlight lazily lay.

Now each visitor shall confess The sad valley's restlessness.

Nothing there is motionless, Nothing save the airs that brood Over the magic solitude.

Ah, by no wind are stirred those trees That palpitate like the chill seas Around the misty Hebrides!

Ah, by no wind those clouds are driven That rustle through the unquiet Heaven Uneasily, from morn to even, Over the violets there that lie In myriad types of the human eye, Over the lilies there that wave And weep above a nameless grave!

They wave:--from out their fragrant tops Eternal dews come down in drops.

They weep:--from off their delicate stems Perennial tears descend in gems.

E.A. POE.

To the Fringed Gentian.

Thou blossom bright with autumn dew, And colored with the heaven's own blue, That openest when the quiet light Succeeds the keen and frosty night:

Thou comest not when violets lean O'er wandering brooks and springs unseen, Or columbines, in purple dressed, Nod o'er the ground-bird's hidden nest.

Thou waitest late and com'st alone, When woods are bare and birds are flown, And frosts and shortening days portend The aged year is near his end.

Then doth thy sweet and quiet eye Look through its fringes to the sky, Blue--blue--as if that sky let fall A flower from its cerulean wall.

I would that thus, when I shall see The hour of death draw near to me, Hope, blossoming within my heart, May look to heaven as I depart.

W.C. BRYANT.

The Crowded Street.

Let me move slowly through the street, Filled with an ever-s.h.i.+fting train, Amid the sound of steps that beat The murmuring walks like autumn rain.

How fast the flitting figures come!

The mild, the fierce, the stony face,-- Some bright with thoughtless smiles, and some Where secret tears have left their trace.

They pa.s.s--to toil, to strife, to rest; To halls in which the feast is spread; To chambers where the funeral guest In silence sits beside the dead.

And some to happy homes repair, Where children, pressing cheek to cheek, With mute caresses shall declare The tenderness they cannot speak.

And some, who walk in calmness here, Shall shudder as they reach the door Where one who made their dwelling dear, Its flower, its light, is seen no more.

Youth, with pale cheek and slender frame, And dreams of greatness in thine eye!

Go'st thou to build an early name, Or early in the task to die?

Keen son of trade, with eager brow!

Who is now fluttering in thy snare?

Thy golden fortunes, tower they now, Or melt the glittering spires in air?

Who of this crowd to-night shall tread The dance till daylight gleam again?

Who sorrow o'er the untimely dead?

Who writhe in throes of mortal pain?

Some, famine-struck, shall think how long The cold, dark hours, how slow the light; And some, who flaunt amid the throng, Shall hide in dens of shame to-night.

Each where his tasks or pleasures call, They pa.s.s, and heed each other not.

There is who heeds, who holds them all In His large love and boundless thought.

These struggling tides of life, that seem In wayward, aimless course to tend, Are eddies of the mighty stream That rolls to its appointed end.