| |
| HATH not the dark stream closed above thy head, | |
| With envy of thy light, thou shining one? | |
| Hast thou not, murmuring, made thy dreamless bed | |
| Where blooms the asphodel, far from all sun? | |
| But thou—thou dost obtain oblivious ease, | 5 |
| While here we rock and moan—thy funeral trees. | |
| |
| Have we not flung our tresses on the stream? | |
| Hath not thy friend, the snowy cygnet, grieved, | |
| And ofttimes watched for thy returning beam, | |
| With archëd neck—and ofttimes been deceived? | 10 |
| A thousand years, and yet a thousand more, | |
| Hast thou been mourned upon this reedy shore. | |
| |
| How long, how long since, all the summer day, | |
| Earth heard the heavens sound from pole to pole, | |
| While legion clouds stood forth in bright array; | 15 |
| Yet no rain followed on the thunder’s roll! | |
| Beneath that glittering legion shrank the seas, | |
| And fire unseen was borne upon the breeze. | |
| |
| The ground was smouldering fire beneath our tread, | |
| The forest dropped the leaf, and failed all grass. | 20 |
| The souls of stricken men their bodies fled, | |
| And, sighing, flocked the wind.—We heard them pass! | |
| The priest, that scanned the portent of the skies, | |
| Fell reeling back, with pierced and shrivelled eyes. | |
| |
| But ah, he saw not what our sight discerned— | 25 |
| The flying chariot-wheel, with fervid tire— | |
| The steeds that unaccustomed guidance spurned | |
| With fateful hoof and breath that scattered fire— | |
| He saw not thee and thine unmeasured fall, | |
| And Jove, unheeding, in his cloudy hall! | 30 |
| |
| Dragged headlong by those swift immortal horse, | |
| Up to our sire went thy vain cry for aid; | |
| Neither he cast a bound, to check their course, | |
| Nor on the golden rein a hand he laid. | |
| Brother beloved, what foe could so deceive, | 35 |
| Bidding thee dare what scarcely gods achieve? | |
| |
| Alas! that we remember—and forget! | |
| For, if we sometimes gain a brief repose, | |
| Soon are we roused, by sudden fear beset; | |
| Then, through our silver boughs a shudder goes, | 40 |
| Our heads we lift, we search the azure gloom, | |
| As though thou still wert falling to thy doom! | |
| |
| Upon the earth no loves were ever ours; | |
| Man greets us from afar, but comes not near, | |
| Nor even round our dark unwindowed towers | 45 |
| Throng the light birds—so much our grief they fear! | |
| We sigh—we tremble—’t is not to the breeze— | |
| Brother beloved, we are thy funeral trees! | |
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