And should she die, her grave should
Upon the bare top of a sunny hill,
Among the moorlands of her own fair land,
Amid a ring of old and moss-grown
In gorse and heather all embosomed.
There should be no tall stone, no marble
Above her gentle corse;—the ponderous
Would press too rudely on those fairy limbs.
The turf should lightly he, that marked her home.
A sacred spot it would be—every
That came to watch her lone grave should be holy.
The deer should browse around her undisturbed;
The whin bird by, her lonely nest should
All fearless; for in life she loved to
Happiness in all things—And we would come on summer
When all around was bright, and set us
And think of all that lay beneath that
On which the heedless moor-bird sits, and
His long, shrill, painful song, as though he
For her that loved him and his pleasant hills;
And we would dream again of bygone
Until our eyes should swell with natural
For brilliant hopes—all faded into air!
As, on the sands of Irak, near
Destroys the traveller's vision of still lakes,
And goodly streams reed-clad, and meadows green;
And leaves behind the drear
Of shadeless, same, yet ever-changing sand!
And when the sullen clouds rose thick on
Mountains on mountains rolling—and dark
Wrapped itself round the hill-tops like a shroud,
When on her grave swept by the moaning
Bending the heather-bells—then would I
And watch by her, in silent loneliness,
And smile upon the storm—as knowing
The lightning's flash would surely turn aside,
Nor mar the lowly mound, where peaceful
All that gave life and love to one fond heart!
I talk of things that are not; and if
By night and day availed from my weak lips,
Then should they never be! till I was gone,
Before the friends I loved, to my long home.
Oh pardon me, if e'er I say too much; my
Too often strangely turns to ribald mirth,
As though I had no doubt nor hope beyond—Or brooding melancholy cloys my
With thoughts of days misspent, of wasted
And bitter feelings swallowed up in jests.
Then strange and fearful thoughts flit o'er my
By indistinctness made more terrible,
And incubi mock at me with fierce
Upon my couch: and visions, crude and dire,
Of planets, suns, millions of miles, infinity,
Space, time, thought, being, blank nonentity,
Things incorporeal, fancies of the brain,
Seen, heard, as though they were material,
All mixed in sickening mazes, trouble me,
And lead my soul away from earth and
Until I doubt whether I be or not!
And then I see all frightful shapes—lank ghosts,
Hydras, chimeras, krakens, wastes of sand,
Herbless and void of living voice—tall
Cleaving the skies with height immeasurable,
On which perchance I climb for infinite years; broad seas,
Studded with islands numberless, that
Beyond the regions of the sun, and
Away in distance vast, or dreary clouds,
Cold, dark, and watery, where wander I for ever!
Or space of ether, where I hang for aye!
A speck, an atom—inconsumable—Immortal, hopeless, voiceless, powerless!
And oft I fancy,
I am weak and old,
And all who loved me, one by one, are dead,
And I am left alone—and cannot die!
Surely there is no rest on earth for
Whose dreams are like a madman's!
I am
And much is yet before me—after
May bring peace with them to my weary heart!
Helston, 1835.
