Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/The Place of Rest
THE PLACE OF REST
I am not happy, though my smiles betoken
The jocund fancies which I do not feel;
I am not happy, all my hopes are broken
Upon the world’s inexorable wheel.
’Tis said the dying shed no useless tears,
And so, I weep not for the vanished years.
I weep not for them, though they flock around me
In solitude, and in the noontide glare;
I weep not for them, though fond eyes confound me,
With midnight havened in their realmless stare.
With jests upon my lips I stand aghast
O’er the Dead Angel that we call the Past.
No More! O terrible, wild word! the days
That have been shudder in the iron grave;
And lo, I totter on, in blind amaze,
’Mid the black gulches of th’ o’erwhelming wave:
No star-bright seas, no Pharos-litten shore,
While the hoarse Raven croaks, “No More! No More!”
And still I weep not, it may be, alas!
That I am hardened into more than stone—
Ah, happy they whose hearts like brittle glass,
Break ere the worst of bitterness is known.
The cold remain, the gentle pass away,
In their white innocence—how happy they!
The drums are clattering in the crowded streets,
The fife and bugle warlike concords blend,
The roar of cannon to my soul repeats:
Peace, weary one, thy pilgrimage can end—
There’s rest for thee upon the battle field,
With Triumph towering in thy shattered shields!