Poems of Sentiment and Imagination/The Dying Poet
THE DYING POET.
He knew that he was dying; day by day
He felt the silver chords within his bosom
Mysteriously but palpably give way,
And he cared not that death so soon should loose them;
For a dull grief was carking in his breast,
That while his heart beat would not be at rest.
There had been flowers in his course at morn,
But one by one had withered on his way;
His heart was heavy, and his feet were torn,
And yet no close came to his weary day;
The night was distant, but he prayed to die
Before its shadows darkened in his sky.
Many had blessed him as he passed them by,
And hushed their hearts to listen to his singing;
And shouted his name upward to the sky—
Roses and gems upon his pathway flinging;
But fainting he had turned him from the throng,
Sighing his sorrow to himself and song.
There had been one to whom his heart went forth
In his young manhood—love's free gift, unbidden;
But she was fair and frigid as the north,
And the warm breathings of his lyre were chidden:
And from that hour it took an altered tone,
Singing to Nature and itself alone.
But now his course was ended; and his gaze
Watched the red sunset fading from the sky—
The last his eyes might look on; while a maze
Of half-forgotten memories flitted by;
A breeze came from the sea and stirred his hair,
And fancy felt his mother's fingers there.
Deeper the crimson of the sunset grew;
An old church-tower that loomed against the west,
Lifting its pinnacle to the far blue,
Pictured to him his own deserted breast,
That rent and ruined, let the sunset in,
Gilding in mockery the shapeless scene.
How had his life been wasted; he had spent
His youth, his manhood, all his young bright years,
In giving one poor passion its full vent,
And it rewarded him with heart-wrung tears,
Till the slow fever sapped his veins all dry,
Nor blood refreshed his heart, nor tears his eye.
Then like an old man with a century's weight
Bowing him to the dust, he laid his weary head
Upon the arm of death, and waiting sat,
Wishing the moments of probation fled—
Wishing his sun of life would fade away,
With the departing brightness of the day.
And thus was hushed his heart, and hushed his lyre;
Death had o'ercome him with the twilight's shade;
The altar had consumed with its own fire,
And perished with the gift upon it laid;
The idol was an idol now no more—
The Poet's love, and grief, and song were o'er.