But sit beside my bed, mother, and put your hand in mine, And Effie on the other side, and I will tell the sign. All in the wild March-morning I heard the angels call; all; The trees began to whisper, and the wind began to roll, And in the wild March-morning I heard them call my soul. For lying broad awake I thought of you and Effie dear ; And up the valley came a swell of music on the wind. I thought that it was fancy, and I listen'd in my bed, And then did something speak to me - I know not what was said; For great delight and shuddering took hold of all my mind, And up the valley came again the music on the wind. But you were sleeping; and I said, "It's not for them, it's mine." And if it comes three times, I thought, I take it for a sign. And once again it came, and close beside the window-bars, Then seem'd to go right up to Heaven and die among the stars. So now I think my time is near. I trust it is. I know And say to Robin a kind word, and tell him not to fret; There's many worthier than I, would make him happy yet. If I had lived- I cannot tell I might have been his wife; But all these things have ceased to be, with my desire of life. O look! the sun begins to rise, the heavens are in a glow He shines upon a hundred fields, and all of them I know. And there I move no longer now, and there his light may shine Wild flowers in the valley for other hands than mine. O sweet and strange it seems to me, that ere this day is done - The voice, that now is speaking, may be beyond the sun Forever and forever, all in a blessed home And there to wait a little while till you and Effie come rest. THE LOTUS-EATERS. "COURAGE!" he said, and pointed toward the land, "This mounting wave will roll us shoreward soon." In the afternoon they came unto a land, In which it seemed always afternoon. All round the coast the languid air did swoon, A land of streams! some, like a downward smoke, From the inner land: far off, three mountain-tops, Stood sunset-flush'd: and, dew'd with showery drops, The charmed sunset linger'd low adown In the red West: thro' mountain clefts the dale Dark faces pale against that rosy flame, Branches they bore of that enchanted stem, They sat them down upon the yellow sand, CHORAL SONG. 1. THERE is sweet music here that softer falls Music that brings sweet sleep down from the blissful skies And thro' the moss the ivies creep, And in the stream the long-leaved flowers weep, And from the craggy ledge the poppy hangs in sleep. 2. Why are we weigh'd upon with heaviness, And utterly consumed with sharp distress, We only toil, who are the first of things, Still from one sorrow to another thrown : Nor ever fold our wings, And cease from wanderings, Nor steep our brows in slumber's holy balm; Nor hearken what the inner spirit sings, “There is no joy but calm!” Why should we only toil, the roof and crown of things? 3. Lo! in the middle of the wood, The folded leaf is woo'd from out the bud The flower ripens in its place, Ripens and fades, and falls, and hath no toil, Hateful is the dark-blue sky, 4. Vaulted o'er the dark-blue sea. Should life all labor be? Let us alone. Time driveth onward fast, In ever climbing up the climbing wave? All things have rest, and ripen toward the grave In silence; ripen, fall and cease: Give us long rest or death, dark death, or dreamful ease. 5. How sweet it were, hearing the downward stream, With half-shut eyes ever to seem Falling asleep in a half-dream! To dream and dream, like yonder amber light, Eating the Lotus day by day, To watch the crisping ripples on the beach, To the influence of mild-minded melancholy; To muse and brood and live again in memory, With those old faces of our infancy Heap'd over with a mound of grass, Two handfuls of white dust, shut in an urn of brass! 6. Dear is the memory of our wedded lives, And dear the last embraces of our wives And their warm tears: but all hath suffer'd change; Long labor unto aged breath, Sore task to hearts worn out by many wars And eyes grown dim with gazing on the pilot-stars. 7. But, propt on beds of amaranth and moly, How sweet (while warm airs lull us, blowing lowly) With half-dropt eyelids still, Beneath a heaven dark and holy, To watch the long bright river drawing slowly His waters from the purple hill To hear the dewy echoes calling From cave to cave thro' the thick-twined vine |