Classic Poem

I knew the story of a broken heart;
A sad tale 'twas, and such an one as some,
Of austere brow and cold mysterious eye,
Might scarcely deign to hear, or hearing it,
Would gravely smile, and then, with solemn air,
Shaking the doubtful head, turn back to dust.
But haply some may learn from it that sadness,
By which the heart grows better; for the tear
Which falls for woe doth ever purify
The soul that sends it, and returns again
A flood of peace, sweet as a seraph's prayer.

They loved, or thought they loved, for cunningly
Doth the arch god rivet an iron chain
Around one neck, nor lets the sufferer see
How light he wreathes the siken thread that joins
His mated slave to that eternal yoke.
She was a blessed creature,—one might live
From blushing boyhood down to hoary age,
And only once in that long waste of years,
Could such a vision come,—but never more
To be forgotten;—not the wanton flowers
Laughed to the sunbeam half so gay as she;—
The sweet south wind on wings of fragrant gladness
Lingered and sighed at her sweet rivalry;—
She was the very dream to light the life
Of a boy-poet in his passionate hour;—
There never came a thought, when she was by,
That Time would ever ask her to give up
One single sparkle of her glorious eye,—
That there was such a thing as Time or Death,
Or that one little silken tress of hers
Would ever droop down in the cold, cold dust.

And could she love that strange and moody man,
Who walked among his kind companionless—
A dreamy, wayward man? Her lightest word
Could win him back from musing melancholy,
And when at times a saddening power would pass
Along his pale, broad brow, and quench awhile
His eagle spirit, she would wreathe again
Her fairy fingers in his raven locks,
And he would kiss her cheek and smile on her;—
She was his own,—his all,—and without her,
Himself had been as nothing. Hand in hand,
Up the brown hills together had they climbed,
And seen the sun, the glorious summer sun,
Unfold the violet's petals—they had stood
Upon the moonlight lea, and day by day,
As that mysterious sadness, which partakes
Of such deep joy, as nature's communings
Alone can give, stole o'er them, they had wept
The tears that sanctify and bless,—together
Had bowed their spirits, and with their pure prayers
Adored high heaven—what lacked they more? They loved!
O may not love like this forever mock
At Time and Change and Fate?
Solemn and sad
The cold east wind sweeps by the russet oaks,
And the green liveried forests have put on
Their bridal hues, purple and verdant gold,—
Their bridal to decay! Solemn and sad
The cold east wind hath swept o'er her—She too
Makes ready bridal vesture,—is she ready
To marry with the grave? O who that saw
So very fair and beautiful a thing
Lingering thus frail upon the verge of life,
Would marvel if her next low, gentle prayer
Should waft her up to Paradise? Yet all,
Even to the last had hope, but still wept on,
They scarce knew why,—but when the trembling leaves
Dropt from their parent boughs, and a faint shudder
And a tremulous flush, and in her eye
A most unearthly brightness came and passed,
And she lay there, voiceless and soulless now,
Lovelier than thought, with her bright, golden hair
Glittering amid the violet veins that rose
Upon her holy brow, you would suppose,
They had not deemed of this, so utter was
Their tearless agony!
Far, far away,
Over the wide blue waters, long and lone,
Roamed that heart-stricken man, nor found he rest
Nor peace, nor hope,—and now he came to die
In his own land. The white sails filled, away
The good ship cleaves the crested billows free,—
Yet his heart felt no bounding spring of hope;—
From morn to night his idle eye was fixed
Upon the idle wave, save when at times,
The western heaven grew gladdened with the joy
Of the perpetual sun, and then with arms
Outspread, and eyes agaze, would he look long
And wistfully towards that far distant land;—
But when the moaning billows roused themselves,
And the pale, sickly sun adown the west
Glared white upon the ghastly sea, and 'mid
Shrill flying ropes the piping sea-winds shrieked,
Till grey-beard sailors shook their hoary heads,
Then he would smile, not proudly, nor in scorn,
But as if he had hoped,—had prayed for death,
And now would hail him a deliverer. On
The fast ship scuds her course, and now he stood
On his own native shore, nor waited he
For welcome or for greeting, till he lay
Along her grave who died,—among bright flowers,
Ripe honey-suckle and sweet fairy-cap,—
And all night long did the cold faithless moon
Shower dews on him, and laughing morn rose up,
As fresh and fair as at young Nature's birth,—
But it was not for him!