Classic Poem

Well do your names express ye, sisters dear,
In small clear sounds awaking mournful thoughts,
Mournful, as with the refluence of a joy
Too pure for these sad coasts of human life.
Methinks had not your happy vernal dawn
Ever arisen on my tranced view,
Those flowing sounds would syllable yourselves
To my delighted soul, or if not so,
Yet when I traced their deeper meaning out,
And fathomed his intent, who in some hour,
Sweet from the world's young dawn, with breath of life
Endowed them, then your certain forms would come,
Pale but true visions of my musing eye.
For thee, oh! eldest flower, whose precious name
Would to inspired ears by Chebar once,
Or the lone cavern hid from Jezabel,
Sound as “Exalted”—fitliest therefore borne
By that mysterious Lady who reposed
In Egypt far, beyond the impious touch
Of fell Herodes, or the unquiet looks
Of men, who knew not Peace to earth was born,—
There happily reposed, waiting the time
When from that dark interminable day
Should by God's might emerge, and Love sit throned,
And Meekness kiss away the looks of Scorn;
Oh Mary! deem that Virgin looks on thee
With an especial care; lean thou on her,
As the ideal of thy woman's heart;
Pray that thy heart be strengthened from above
To lasting hope, and sovran kindliness;
That conquering smiles and more than conquering tears
May be thy portion through the ways of life:
So walk thou on in thy simplicity,
Following the Virgin Queen for evermore!
Thou other name, I turn with deepest awe
To think of all thou utterest unto me.
Oh Emily! how frail must be my speech,
Weighed with the thought that in my spirit burns,
To find no rest until 'tis known by thee,
Till our souls see each other face to face.
Thou hearest not, alas! thou art afar,
And I am lone as ever, sick and lone
Roaming the weary desert of my doom
Where thou art not, altho' all speaks of thee,
All yearns for thee, my love: each barren wold
Would teem with fruitful glory at thy smile.
But so—'twas of thy name that I would speak,
And thus I will not lend me to that lie,
That from the old and proud Æmilian clan
Thy name was brought, the famous Roman dames
Who, in a sweeping stole, broad-zoned and full,
With solemn brows and settled eyes severe,
Tended the household glory of their lords.
Ah, no! a sweeter birth, fair name, is thine!
Surely some soul born in the tender light
Of golden suns and deep-starred night divine,
Feeling the want of some far gentler word
Than any speech doth own, to slake the thirst
Of his impetuous heart, and be at once
The symbol and relief of that high love
Which made him weary and faint even unto death,
He gathering up the wasted energies
For a last work, and breathing all his life
Into a word of love, said “Amelie,”
Meaning “Beloved;” and then methinks he died,
And the melodious magic of his voice
Shrank in its fulness; but the amorous air
And the blue sea close murmuring to the shore
With a sweet regular moan, the orange grove
Rising from that slope shore in richest shade,
Blent with the spiked aloe, and cactus wild,
And rarer growth of the luxuriant palm,
Lived in that word, and echoed “Emily,”
Tempering the tone with variation sweet.
Thou seest it, maiden: if the fairest things
Of this fair world, and breathing deepest love,
Sang welcome to the name then framed for thee,
And such as thee, the gentlest of the earth,
Should I, to whom this tale was whispered
By some kind Muse in hours of silent thought,
Look on thy face and call thee not “Beloved,”
It were in me unmeasured blasphemy.
Oh! envy not thyself thy station high:
Consent to be “Beloved;” I ask no more
Than to fulfil for thee thy warning name
And in a perfect loving live and die.