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(From Three Friends of Mine)
IN Attica thy birthplace should have been, | |
| Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas | |
| Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, | |
| So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene | |
| And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene! | 5 |
| Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees; | |
| Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, | |
| And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. | |
| For thee old legends breathed historic breath; | |
| Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, | 10 |
| And in the sunset Jason’s fleece of gold! | |
| O, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, | |
| Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, | |
| That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! * * * * * | |
| River, that stealest with such silent pace | 15 |
| Around the City of the Dead, where lies | |
| A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes | |
| Shall see no more in his accustomed place, | |
| Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace | |
| And say good night, for now the western skies | 20 |
| Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise | |
| Like damps that gather on a dead man’s face. | |
| Good night! good night! as we so oft have said | |
| Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days | |
| That are no more, and shall no more return. | 25 |
| Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed; | |
| I stay a little longer, as one stays | |
| To cover up the embers that still burn. | |
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| The doors are all wide open; at the gate | |
| The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, | 30 |
| And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze | |
| Hangs o’er the Brighton meadows like a fate, | |
| And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, | |
| The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, | |
| Writes the last letter of his name, and stays | 35 |
| His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. | |
| I also wait; but they will come no more, | |
| Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied | |
| The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me! | |
| They have forgotten the pathway to my door! | 40 |
| Something is gone from nature since they died, | |
| And summer is not summer, nor can be. | |
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