A Lament
I.
The dew steeps the heart of the flower,
And the green bending rays of the grass,
And there, in an unseen shower,
The mist and sweet odors mass:
The sensitive plant of the bosom,
Is quivering, shrinking, and pale;
No dews feed its withering blossom,
The winds through its parched leaves wail.

II.
The fast stream that runs from the mountain,
Is wreathing its white brow with mist;
And its edge, like the brim of a fountain,
With grass and sweet flowers is kissed:
The waves of the heart's crimson river
Flow on, uncrowned with light;
The weeds on its dark banks shiver,
And shrink from the roar of its flight.

III.
The sunshine is cradled in leaves,
And rocked by the unseen air,
While the sea of emerald heaves,
With a slumberous motion there:
No cheerful sunshine sleeps
In the dark caves of the soul,
But the sad heart ever weeps
For a grief beyond control.

IV.
Morn's purple and crimson torrent,
Upon the mountain pours;
And still amid that current,
The sunlight rains its showers:
The fire of passion blazes,
Less hotly than of old;
And sorrow, like sea-mist, chases
The morning's purple and gold.

V.
The eagle sits on his eyrie,
A golden haze around him clings,
On a pyramid lone and dreary
He fans the snow with his wings:
The eagle Ambition remaineth,
Fanning the icy heart;
His keen eye never waneth,
Till the soul and its frail house part.

VI.
The thrush on his nest is brooding,
His wings slowly winnow the air,
And a sea of music is flooding
The great green forest there:
No cheerful song is ringing
Through the sad heart's solitude;
Nor birds of joy soft-singing,
Among its ruins brood.

VII.
The influence of the morning
Is sweet after the recent rain;
To the heart it is only a warning,
That night will come again:
The heart was once all glory,
Till boyhood faded away;
Its course is now the story
Of an evanescent day.

VIII.
The spirit of the morning burneth
On his altar orient;
But the glooms that the sea inurneth,
At night will be unpent:
The spirit of life is fainting,
Pressed by the glooms of death;
Like moonlight on a painting,
Life merely lingereth.

IX.
A shadow is on the soul,
Like a shadow on the sea;
Though the songs of glory roll
With a grave sublimity:
Like a current of pale moonlight,
In the light of a flickering lamp,
A light like a shadow, half dark, half bright,
Is life in this earthly camp.

X.
Pale Death is bending over
The worn and weary heart;
Ah, what a constant lover,
Grim Emperor, thou art!—
The soft, faint light of sorrow
Shines on the wasted scroll;
It will close, and the lamps go out to-morrow;
The arrow is near its goal.