Ah woe is me! Winter is come and gone, Fresh leaves and flowers deck the dead Season's bier; Like unimprisoned flames, out of their trance awake. Through wood and stream and field and hill and Ocean The leprous corpse touched by this spirit tender By sightless lightning?-th' intense atom glows A moment, then is quenched in a most cold repose. Alas! that all we loved of him should be But for our grief, as if it had not been, And grief itself be mortal! Woe is me! Whence are we, and why are we? of what scene The actors or spectators? Great and mean Meet massed in death, who lends what life must borrow. As long as skies are blue, and fields are green, Evening must usher night, night urge the morrow, Month follow month with woe, and year wake year to sorrow. He will awake no more, oh, never more! "Wake thou," cried Misery, "childless Mother, rise Swift as a Thought by the snake Memory stung, She rose like an autumnal Night, that springs Had left the Earth a corpse. Sorrow and fear So saddened round her like an atmosphere Even to the mournful place where Adonais lay. Out of her secret Paradise she sped, Through camps and cities rough with stone, and steel, Yielding not, wounded the invisible Palms of her tender feet where'er they fell: And barbed tongues, and thoughts more sharp than they Whose sacred blood, like the young tears of May, In the death chamber for a moment Death Revisited those lips, and life's pale light Flashed through those limbs, so late her dear delight. "Leave me not wild and drear and comfortless, As silent lightning leaves the starless night! Leave me not!" cried Urania: her distress Roused Death: Death rose and smiled, and met her vain caress. "Stay yet awhile! speak to me once again; And in my heartless breast and burning brain Now thou art dead, as if it were a part Of thee, my Adonais! I would give All that I am to be as thou now art! But I am chained to Time, and cannot thence depart! "O gentle child, beautiful as thou wert, Why didst thou leave the trodden paths of men Or hadst thou waited the full cycle, when Thy spirit should have filled its crescent sphere, The monsters of life's waste had fled from thee like deer. "The herded wolves, bold only to pursue; The obscene ravens, clamourous o'er the dead; And whose wings rain contagion;-how they fled, The Pythian of the age one arrow sped And smiled! The spoilers tempt no second blow, They fawn on the proud feet that spurn them lying low. "The sun comes forth, and many reptiles spawn; He sets, and each ephemeral insect then Is gathered into death without a dawn, A godlike mind soars forth, in its delight Making earth bare and veiling heaven, and when Thus ceased she: and the mountain shepherds came, Their garlands sere, their magic mantles rent; The Pilgrim of Eternity, whose fame Over his living head like Heaven is bent, An early but enduring monument, Came, veiling all the lightnings of his song The sweetest lyrist of her saddest wrong, And love taught grief to fall like music from his tongue. Midst others of less note, came one frail Form, A phantom among men; companionless With feeble steps o'er the world's wilderness, A pardlike Spirit beautiful and swift A Love in desolation masked;-a Power Girt round with weakness;-it can scarce uplift It is a dying lamp, a falling shower, Is it not broken? On the withering flower The killing sun smiles brightly: on a cheek The life can burn in blood, even while the heart may break. His head was bound with pansies over-blown, Shook the weak hand that grasped it; of that crew A herd-abandoned deer struck by the hunter's dart. All stood aloof, and at his partial moan Smiled through their tears; well knew that gentle band As in the accents of an unknown land, He sung new sorrow; sad Urania scanned The Stranger's mien, and murmured: "Who art thou?" He answered not, but with a sudden hand Made bare his branded and ensanguined brow, Which was like Cain's or Christ's-oh, that it should be so! What softer voice is hushed over the dead? Athwart what brow is that dark mantle thrown? In mockery of monumental stone, The heavy heart heaving without a moan? If it be He, who, gentlest of the wise, Taught, soothed, loved, honoured the departed one; Our Adonais has drunk poison-oh! What deaf and viperous murderer could crown But what was howling in one breast alone, Silent with expectation of the song, Whose master's hand is cold, whose silver lyre unstrung. Live thou, whose infamy is not thy fame! And like a beaten hound tremble thou shalt-as now. |