Ah! me, I never left a merrymaking,
  Or saw kind friends go laughing from the door,
But under all my mirth my heart was aching
  To think that happy day could rise no more.

To-day hath been the harvest of the heart,
  From far and near mine old companions met,
And now the gate stands wide, and they must part,
  Leaving me here 'twixt triumph and regret.

The nimble wit that might not be withstood,
  The song, the merry tale, the jokes like rain,
The untamed laughter tingling in the blood,
  The selfsame moments ne'er can fall again.

Haply as bright a hearth shall burn again,
  As fair a company around it sit,
Children, and bright-eyed maids, and joyous men,
  As warm the welcome, and as bright the wit;

But ah! who can unlock the barred Morrow,
  Or see what fates lie hid in flattering years,
No cheerier hearth can glow than this -- but Sorrow
  May cloud with sighs, or quench it with her tears.

Tho' the bright drops of the swift-flowing River
  See us no more, we do not weep for them,
For others like to them come up for ever,
  Tho' every drop be lovely as a gem.

When Summer nightingales have ceased to sing,
  And Autumn storms have quench'd their tongues of flame,
If throstles chant, we can await the Spring,
  We mourn not that their songs are not the same.

Day yields to night, and days as fair are born,
  But, O dear friends, will my forlorn regret
Bring back your absent faces like the Morn,
  And some of ye are gone since last we met.

Not idly have I drank your faithful words,
  Your hopes, your fears, your sorrows freely spoken,
I tell ye they will echo, till the chords
  Of this old solitary heart are broken.

Oh! when I look'd on them I loved of old,
  I heard the many tongues of life-long years,
There were the proud grown meek, the fearful bold,
  Sighs born of joy, and songs the end of tears.

Some there had fought the fight, and others lay
  Like Warriors arm'd, that helmed vigils keep,
And wait the rising of a battle-day
  To win them Honour -- iron ev'n in sleep.

And some with Death were wrestlers day by day,
  And slept with Sorrow -- sisters of Despair,
Who smile serenely, knowing none can stay
  Their sombre steps to Him -- their Hope is there.

Who love to laugh, because it stills the cry
  Of lamentation piercing thro' the whole,
Who love to speak, but only with a sigh
  Whisper the sleepless voices of the Soul.

There is that holy thing, sweet Children's mirth,
  Which they can only feel, nor feel for long,
That light from glories older than the Earth,
  Heart-broken Nature's one diviner song.

And there were Children grown to mighty Men,
  And plumed with hopes both beautiful and dread;
And some that I shall never see again;
  Some newly widow'd, and some newly wed.

And some could laugh and sing like revellers,
  And yet beneath the festal robe and flowers
Close by the heart they held a hundred scars,
  Mintage of painful Youth, and cruel hours.

Honor to them! who for their earthly brothers
  Can veil their sorrows with a rosy crown,
And without Hope can make it spring in others,
  And comfort cares, the likeness of their own.

And one -- but his bright promise has been shed
  By evil thunders, like March blossoms torn
Untimely -- and he bears a wreath instead
  Of glittering poisons lifted as in scorn.

Look in his eye, and in it ye may see
  The tortured Spirit, like a whirling flame,
Burn with a light that is not Hope or Glee,
  But Pride, that scoffs at thought, and tramples shame.

Look in his heart -- it is a Cavern dim
  Where doleful things in endless twilight be -- 
And by the little light that enters in
  See the waste waters of a sunless sea.

Yet is there one who leans upon his arm -- 
  Ah! sweet pale blossom of a tangled brere,
Who breathest out rare odor in the storm,
  Sweet Pity pleading to an iron ear,

Thy deeds are written in the sealed Book
  Tho' darkness to the World -- while thou dost wake,
By all good Angels he is not forsook,
  Let him be welcome -- welcome for thy sake.

Daughter of Darkness, lovely as a star,
  Who passest meekly thro' the unheeding crowd,
Thy Beauty and thy Love like sunbeams are,
  Sweeter, because they reach us thro' a cloud.

But who is there? I see an aged man -- 
  And there are other scars than those of Time
Dinted into his brow -- his lips are wan,
  But dark his cheek with many a care and clime.

Alas! is this the playmate of my youth,
  Foremost in mirth or peril, swift and bold,
The first in all mad ventures, and in truth
  A heart and frame that never should grow old?

Is this the Head of Armies I behold
  With that dim eye, gray head, and wither'd hand,
Whose name is wonderful, whose fame is roll'd
  On waves of Song, and over Sea and Land?

He took me by the hand -- we sate apart -- 
  He told me all the tempest of his life,
His fiery trials of the Head and Heart,
  Hot nights of care, and thunderdays of strife.

Awful his accents sounded in mine ears
  As the last moan of stormy winds at Even,
When the torn forest weeps its angry tears,
  And bloodred sunset lights the piled Heaven.

And as a Spirit that has snatch'd a sight
  Thro' Hellgate, and hath heard the utter woe,
And bears upon his face the dreadful light,
  And hears the torment wheresoe'er he go,

His whisper'd words are echoes of alarms,
  The momentary lightning of his eye
Comes to me like the distant flash of arms,
  A World of Sorrow hovers on his sigh.

He lifts his arm -- he shows me, and I see
  A midnight shore -- a city on a height -- 
And burning towers that fall into the sea,
  And flying hosts whose terrors cleave the night.

Faint Age that clasps the knees of armed men,
  And mazed Innocence that yearns to play
With the pale fingers it unclasps in vain,
  And seeks the breast where just before it lay.

A lifted sword -- a banner on the wall -- 
  A youth with eager aspect -- then a cry
Drown'd in the flood that overwhelms his fall -- 
  ‘He was my firstborn -- but 'twas Victory!’

Temples, the glory of a thousand years,
  Arts that no toil could match, no wealth could buy,
Whole Ages sank that night in blood and tears,
  ‘My friends were dead -- but it was Victory

That night a stripling with the dead was laid,
  An only child -- no other wealth he had
But the fond vows of his true-hearted maid,
  And mother's blessing when she kiss'd the lad.

Now his few days were ended -- but a tear
  Was frozen on his cheek, and in his hand
He held a ringlet of her sunny hair
  Still clutch'd in anguish when he grasp'd the sand.

In their lone cot upon the mountain slope
  Sate that sad maid and mother -- one would sigh,
The other look'd, and smiled, and bade her hope,
  ‘He must return -- for it is Victory!’

One burning tear roll'd o'er the wasted cheek
  Of that old man -- he parted, and I mourn'd -- 
Oh! where shall he find what the weary seek
  The peace he troubled, and the rest he scorn'd?

Another comes, who, since his heart beat high
  With hope and promise, as a Mayday Morn,
Hath conquer'd -- and he too hears Victory!
  Shouted into his ears, but is forlorn.

His was another warfare, other arms;
  He strove with Spirits, and he won the fight
With music, and with beauty, and the charms
  Of woven arts, and thoughts like shafts of light.

Downward he gazes, with his eyes in tears,
  Upon the perils of that rocky way
That lifted him to Honor, and he hears
  Like far off music, the first note of praise.

His sense is dead -- the odors of the green
  That others breathe, the songs they hear, are lost
Upon him now -- yet their delight hath been
  Dearest to him, for he hath felt it most.

There is a silence on the topmost peak,
  The mighty purpose, and the earnest will,
That shadow'd all things, while they were to seek,
  Sleep, like the thunders underneath the hill.

But here is solitude with icy cold,
  Or loveless light -- his blessed Youth is gone -- 
Go back he cannot -- and his Pride must hold
  With weary gripe the sceptre he hath won.

Perchance he thinks, and shudders at that thought,
  That all he hath done is but done in vain,
Around the pyramid that he hath wrought
  To his own glory, howl Misery and Pain.

The marble Beauty smiling at the top
  What hath it done to shield the shafts of Fate,
To lull the smart of Anguish, kindle Hope,
  To solace Hunger, or to vanquish Hate?

His Earth is growing dark, his Sun is dim,
  The golden sceptre trembles in his hand,
The very Mountaintop rocks under him,
  For it is slipping from its base of sand.

Perchance he sees, now that his eyes are clear,
  All that Ambition spurring in his haste
Drives by unmark'd; he cannot bring them near,
  And Death is standing 'twixt him and the Past.

Ah me! the little lovely wayside flowers,
  The dewy blossoms breathing in his face,
The springs that murmur'd under quiet bowers,
  The wildbirds piping out of lonely ways.

Maybe, some gentle face comes to his mind,
  A lowly flower that turn'd to him its day,
Some tender, loving heart, too fondly blind,
  That shrank, and perish'd, as he turn'd away.

He sees the mountain village where she sleeps,
  Far as that memory, lovely as that feeling,
And though he wept not then -- ah! now he weeps,
  Inly he weeps -- but hark! the Music pealing.

And it is She who sings, that mournful Maid
  That dove-eyed daughter of hard-hearted Pride,
All that her eyes had left untold, is said;
  Methinks I hear an Angel at his side.