| |
“HENRI HEINE”—’t is here! | |
| The black tombstone, the name | |
| Carved there,—no more! and the smooth, | |
| Swarded alleys, the limes | |
| Touched with yellow by hot | 5 |
| Summer, but under them still | |
| In September’s bright afternoon | |
| Shadow and verdure and cool! | |
| Trim Montmartre! the faint | |
| Murmur of Paris outside; | 10 |
| Crisp everlasting-flowers, | |
| Yellow and black, on the graves. | |
| |
| Half blind, palsied, in pain, | |
| Hither to come, from the streets’ | |
| Uproar, surely not loath | 15 |
| Wast thou, Heine!—to lie | |
| Quiet! to ask for closed | |
| Shutters, and darkened room, | |
| And cool drinks, and an eased | |
| Posture, and opium, no more! | 20 |
| Hither to come, and to sleep | |
| Under the wings of Renown. | |
| |
| Ah! not little, when pain | |
| Is most quelling, and man | |
| Easily quelled, and the fine | 25 |
| Temper of genius alive | |
| Quickest to ill, is the praise | |
| Not to have yielded to pain! | |
| No small boast, for a weak | |
| Son of mankind, to the earth | 30 |
| Pinned by the thunder, to rear | |
| His bolt-scathed front to the stars; | |
| And, undaunted, retort | |
| ’Gainst thick-crashing, insane, | |
| Tyrannous tempests of bale, | 35 |
| Arrowy lightnings of soul! | |
| |
| Hark! through the alley resounds | |
| Mocking laughter! A film | |
| Creeps o’er the sunshine; a breeze | |
| Ruffles the warm afternoon, | 40 |
| Saddens my soul with its chill. | |
| Gibing of spirits in scorn | |
| Shakes every leaf of the grove, | |
| Mars the benignant repose | |
| Of this amiable home of the dead. | 45 |
| |
| Bitter spirits! ye claim | |
| Heine?—Alas, he is yours! | |
| Only a moment I longed | |
| Here in the quiet to snatch | |
| From such mates the outworn | 50 |
| Poet, and steep him in calm. | |
| Only a moment! I knew | |
| Whose he was who is here | |
| Buried, I knew he was yours! | |
| Ah, I knew that I saw | 55 |
| Here no sepulchre built | |
| In the laurelled rock, o’er the blue | |
| Naples bay, for a sweet | |
| Tender Virgil! no tomb | |
| On Ravenna sands, in the shade | 60 |
| Of Ravenna pines, for a high | |
| Austere Dante! no grave | |
| By the Avon side, in the bright | |
| Stratford meadows, for thee, | |
| Shakespeare! loveliest of souls, | 65 |
| Peerless in radiance, in joy. * * * * * | |
| |
