Classic Poem

MELANCHOLY.

Laura, morning's waking rays
In thy golden glances flame,
O'er thy cheek the crimson strays,
And thy pearl-like tears proclaim
Ecstasy thy mother's name.
Happy he who can assign
To those tears a source divine,
For to him new suns arise,
Shining from unclouded skies.

And thy soul — a vision clear,
Like a silver, sunlit mere,
Autumn's dreary tints of grey
Can transform to smiling May,
Deserts to a radiant sphere.
O'er the future's dread unseen
Spreadest thou a golden sheen;
Thou smil'st at Nature's harmony
And grace; but I can only sigh.

Powers of darkness ever creep
Underneath this earth of ours;
Castles frowning on the steep,
Cities with their stately towers,
All on mouldering bones are piled
Thy carnations owe their bloom
To corruption, and defiled,
Fountains issue from the tomb.

As the planets upward sail
Let them, Laura, tell their tale!
Under their commanding zone
Thousand thousand Springs have flown,
Countless thrones have been upraised,
Countless battle-fields have blazed.
Wouldest thou the story trace?
Seek it in some iron-bound place!
Sooner or later, when the end is nigh,
Away the planet's chariot wheels will fly.

'Tis but a twinkle — and the Sun
In the sea of Death goes down!
Prithee, whence thy glances? Say,
Boastest thou that brilliant eye,
Or thy cheek's empurpled dye,
Borrowed all from mouldering clay?
Maid, expensive was the loan;
To Death thou must restore his own,
And heavy interest pay.

Speak not of Death in careless tone!
The rosier thy cheeks appear
The more exalted is his throne.
Beneath that skin so fresh and fair
The foeman marks thee for his own.
Laura, — my words no fancy deem —
Deathward alone thine eye is bent;
With every glance is nearer spent
Thy life-lamp's little gleam.
" But my pulses strong and blithe
Bound along, " I hear thee say.
Ah! But the tyrant's creatures writhe
Insidiously towards decay.

Death thy smiles away shall sweep,
As the tempest o'er the deep
Drives the many-coloured foam.
Vain it is to seek their trace
Limned in Nature's smiling face,
In life itself, as though his home,
The dread Destroyer takes his place.

Alas! thy roses wind-shorn lie,
Thy lovely mouth is hushed and pale,
The levelling storm, the Winter's gale
Thy cheeks' entrancing beauty try.
The misty light of drooping years
The silver stream of youth will dull;
In Laura's love will come a lull,
As her attraction disappears.

Maiden, thy Poet, sturdy as an oak
Stands: on his hardy youth descends in vain
The piercing shaft, the death-compelling stroke;
My glances — blazing as the lamps which reign
In heaven's self — my soul more ruddy bright
Than even heaven's everlasting fires,
Such sea-swept heavens as alternate smite
In fury, then up-build the craggy spires.
Through boundless space my thoughts unfettered move,
And nothing fear but their own narrow groove.

With pride, my Laura, does thy bosom swell?
Know then, fair maid, the waters of this well,
This cup from which the Godhead seems to speak,
With poison reek!
Ah! Thrice unhappy who essay
To strike the spark divine from clay.
Before the bold harmonious note
The trembling harp-strings leap and burst,
And Genius' rays in space which float
On life's poor flame alone are nursed.

Subservient guardians before him prone
Lie, and detach him from his living throne!
Alas! my spirits, stirred to impious fire,
In league are bound, and 'gainst myself conspire.
Let two brief Springs, my Laura, pass —
But two — and then this house of clay
Will fall, a tottering ruined mass,
Extinguishing my feeble ray.

Dost weep, my Laura? — Dry those tears,
Which but lament my tale of years!
Nay, dry those tears for very shame!
Would Laura see my forces fail,
Would she behold me shrink and quail,
Who knew me in my youthful fame?
She hear my frozen spirit chide
The fervour of my early pride,
And mark my ageing conscience pour
Rebuke on favourite sins of yore?
Nay, dry those tears for very shame!

Yes! Cull the flower in its bloom,
And thou, good youth, enwrapped in gloom,
My life's torch quench in tears.
As falls the curtain on the tragic stage
And, rustling down, conceals the fairest page,
The shadows fly: — the crowd still sits and hears.