THE SAME majestic pine is lifted high | |
| Against the twilight sky, | |
| The same low, melancholy music grieves | |
| Amid the topmost leaves, | |
| As when I watched, and mused, and dreamed with him, | 5 |
| Beneath these shadows dim. | |
| |
| O Tree! hast thou no memory at thy core | |
| Of one who comes no more? | |
| No yearning memory of those scenes that were | |
| So richly calm and fair, | 10 |
| When the last rays of sunset, shimmering down, | |
| Flashed like a royal crown? | |
| |
| And he, with hand outstretched and eyes ablaze, | |
| Looked forth with burning gaze, | |
| And seemed to drink the sunset like strong wine, | 15 |
| Or, hushed in trance divine, | |
| Hailed the first shy and timorous glance from far | |
| Of evening’s virgin star? | |
| |
| O Tree! against thy mighty trunk he laid | |
| His weary head; thy shade | 20 |
| Stole o’er him like the first cool spell of sleep; | |
| It brought a peace so deep | |
| The unquiet passion died from out his eyes, | |
| As lightning from stilled skies. | |
| |
| And in that calm he loved to rest, and hear | 25 |
| The soft wind-angels, clear | |
| And sweet, among the uppermost branches sighing; | |
| Voices he heard replying | |
| (Or so he dreamed) far up the mystic height, | |
| And pinions rustling light. | 30 |
| |
| O Tree! have not his poet touch, his dreams | |
| So full of heavenly gleams, | |
| Wrought through the folded dullness of thy bark, | |
| And all thy nature dark | |
| Stirred to slow throbbings, and the fluttering fire | 35 |
| Of faint, unknown desire? | |
| |
| At least to me there sweeps no rugged ring | |
| That girds the forest-king | |
| No immemorial stain, or awful rent | |
| (The mark of tempest spent), | 40 |
| No delicate leaf, no lithe bough, vine o’ergrown, | |
| No distant, flickering cone, | |
| |
| But speaks of him, and seems to bring once more | |
| The joy, the love of yore; | |
| But most when breathed from out the sunset-land | 45 |
| The sunset airs are bland, | |
| That blow between the twilight and the night, | |
| Ere yet the stars are bright; | |
| |
| For then that quiet eve comes back to me, | |
| When deeply, thrillingly, | 50 |
| He spake of lofty hopes which vanquish death; | |
| And on his mortal breath | |
| A language of immortal meanings hung, | |
| That fired his heart and tongue. | |
| |
| For then unearthly breezes stir and sigh, | 55 |
| Murmuring, “Look up! ’tis I: | |
| Thy friend is near thee! Ah, thou canst not see!” | |
| And through the sacred tree | |
| Passes what seems a wild and sentient thrill— | |
| Passes, and all is still!— | 60 |
| |
| Still as the grave which holds his tranquil form, | |
| Hushed after many a storm,— | |
| Still as the calm that crowns his marble brow, | |
| No pain can wrinkle now,— | |
| Still as the peace—pathetic peace of God— | 65 |
| That wraps the holy sod, | |
| |
| Where every flower from our dead minstrel’s dust | |
| Should bloom, a type of trust,— | |
| That faith which waxed to wings of heavenward might | |
| To bear his soul from night,— | 70 |
| That faith, dear Christ! whereby we pray to meet | |
| His spirit at God’s feet! | |
| |
