[A FRAGMENT.]
Old Howard and his daughter, in one grave
Together slept. Not a stone marked the spot,
Only a little hillock, crowned in summer
With a wild tuft of daisies, pointed out
Their last and narrow resting-place. — A lone
Secluded spot, with rank grass over-grown,
And it seemed shunned by all — by all, save one,
And he was grey and feeble, not with age,
But the rude tempest of a troubled soul
Had shattered its frail tenement, and beat
Against its bars of clay. Ah! noblest minds
Sink soonest into ruin, like a tree
That with the weight of its own golden fruitage
Is bent down to the dust.
*****
His withered cheek is as a tablet where
Destroying Time, and some still busier hand,
Have traced strange characters; and on his brow
Death's hoary weeds have gathered, (11) ivy-like,
Clasping that arch of ruined majesty:
Yet still his step is stately, and his eye,
Bright with the fire of happier times, betrays
A spirit that has soared so high above
Its darkened fortunes, that the sun that's set
Is shining on it still.
There he would sit
Upon that little hillock, when the sun
Was sinking in the west, and evening winds
Began their melodies — there he would sit
For hours, and pluck away the weeds that grew
Upon that grave; nettles and thistles, all
But that one tuft of daisies. Sometimes too
He chanted wild and solemn strains that seemed
Not learned from mortal minstrelsy — the music
Of broken hearts, that, like imprisoned streams
In ice long fettered, warble as they melt.
Society he shunned, and if a footstep
By chance intruded on his solitude
He turned away in silence. — Yet he was
Gentle and bland to all who questioned him;
Only sometimes, when least they deemed their words
Could rankle his soul's wounds, strange pangs would flash
Across his brow, and his whole frame would shake
And tremble like the aspen tree — and then
He breathed his wild and mournful melodies.
Once only were his features known to bend
From the habitual gloom which shadowed them —
He had been watching with unwearied gaze
A star, whose dark and perilous course, he said,
Resembled his own life. 'Twas large and bright,
But so surrounded by thick-coming clouds
'Twas scarcely seen. These ever and anon
Would gather, mustering all their strength around it,
And then it seemed to struggle with its foes
And strive for mastery: until at length
One larger came, and blacker than the rest,
And with its ponderous veil eclipsed it quite.
And then he smiled —
A dead wan smile, the still-born of the heart,
Which, ere it reach'd its cradle, found its grave.
His heart was broken: and one morn some peasants
Who wandered towards his solitude, found him stretch'd
Upon the turf. They raised him, chafed his brows,
And with the cool drops from the crystal well
Sprinkled his pallid face — but 'twas in vain!
Vain were their friendly efforts — life was fled!
Old Howard and his daughter, in one grave
Together slept. Not a stone marked the spot,
Only a little hillock, crowned in summer
With a wild tuft of daisies, pointed out
Their last and narrow resting-place. — A lone
Secluded spot, with rank grass over-grown,
And it seemed shunned by all — by all, save one,
And he was grey and feeble, not with age,
But the rude tempest of a troubled soul
Had shattered its frail tenement, and beat
Against its bars of clay. Ah! noblest minds
Sink soonest into ruin, like a tree
That with the weight of its own golden fruitage
Is bent down to the dust.
*****
His withered cheek is as a tablet where
Destroying Time, and some still busier hand,
Have traced strange characters; and on his brow
Death's hoary weeds have gathered, (11) ivy-like,
Clasping that arch of ruined majesty:
Yet still his step is stately, and his eye,
Bright with the fire of happier times, betrays
A spirit that has soared so high above
Its darkened fortunes, that the sun that's set
Is shining on it still.
There he would sit
Upon that little hillock, when the sun
Was sinking in the west, and evening winds
Began their melodies — there he would sit
For hours, and pluck away the weeds that grew
Upon that grave; nettles and thistles, all
But that one tuft of daisies. Sometimes too
He chanted wild and solemn strains that seemed
Not learned from mortal minstrelsy — the music
Of broken hearts, that, like imprisoned streams
In ice long fettered, warble as they melt.
Society he shunned, and if a footstep
By chance intruded on his solitude
He turned away in silence. — Yet he was
Gentle and bland to all who questioned him;
Only sometimes, when least they deemed their words
Could rankle his soul's wounds, strange pangs would flash
Across his brow, and his whole frame would shake
And tremble like the aspen tree — and then
He breathed his wild and mournful melodies.
Once only were his features known to bend
From the habitual gloom which shadowed them —
He had been watching with unwearied gaze
A star, whose dark and perilous course, he said,
Resembled his own life. 'Twas large and bright,
But so surrounded by thick-coming clouds
'Twas scarcely seen. These ever and anon
Would gather, mustering all their strength around it,
And then it seemed to struggle with its foes
And strive for mastery: until at length
One larger came, and blacker than the rest,
And with its ponderous veil eclipsed it quite.
And then he smiled —
A dead wan smile, the still-born of the heart,
Which, ere it reach'd its cradle, found its grave.
His heart was broken: and one morn some peasants
Who wandered towards his solitude, found him stretch'd
Upon the turf. They raised him, chafed his brows,
And with the cool drops from the crystal well
Sprinkled his pallid face — but 'twas in vain!
Vain were their friendly efforts — life was fled!