Poems (Griffith)/To ———, during his Illness
To ———, During his Illness.
THOU wilt not leave me, Love, to pine alone Upon the dreary desert of the world. Thou wilt not, must not, nay, thou canst not die, And leave me here, a lonely, withering flower, Torn from its parent stem and torn from thee,Its dear flower-mate, and thrown upon the cold Unsympathizing earth to sigh away Its breath upon the gales of autumn. Thou Must never leave me, dearest, for with thee My spirit's life would perish.
I have marked Thy pale cheek growing paler; I have watched The bright, unearthly glitter of thine eye, And seen the crimson spot upon thy brow, The omens of the grave. Thy pallid lip Trembles as with a keen, unspoken pain, And there are times when o'er thy sunken face Deep, mournful shadows, and bright spirit-gleams, Follow each other, telling that thy thoughts Are of the tomb and heaven.
Thy hand is cold, And damp and deathlike when 'tis pressed in mine, And though few years have yet been thine on earth, Bright silver threads, like waning spectres, gleam Amid the raven curls that float around Thy temples pale. Thy voice hath fainter grown, And though its melody is sweeter now Than even when, in thy young years of health And manly strength, thy first dear words of love Were breathed into my ear, its sweetness seems Caught from the spirit-world. Ay, its low tones Soften and melt, each day, as if they were Attuning, even now, their cadences To join the angel harmonies that float Upon the air of Eden.
Yet, oh stay!The earth is beautiful to thee; and while Thou lingerest here, thy presence makes it bright And beautiful to me. Stay! stay! oh stay! And do not leave my life a cheerless night, Without one gleaming star upon the cold Blue desert of its sky. My heart has flung The whole wealth of its hoarded love on thee; Fame's choicest garland blooms upon thy brow, Won proudly by thy glorious genius; thine Is the loud worship of the shouting throng; Fortune has poured her treasures at thy feet, And many friends, who love thee earnestly, Are watching with alternate hope and fear From day to day the changes of thy face, Betokening life or death.
Then live, oh live For me, for friends, for glory, for mankind! Thy strength of soul has made thee conqueror In every mortal strife. Oh struggle now With the last enemy! Ah, well I know That thou, whose tones were never breathed in vain,Canst, by their deep, enchanting music, win The angel health back to thy life once more.
Louisville, 1852.
THE END.