THE LONELY SPARROW.
Thou from the top of yonder antique tower, O lonely sparrow, wandering, hast gone, Thy song repeating till the day is done, And through this valley strays the harmony. How Spring rejoices in the fields around, And fills the air with light, So that the heart is melted at the sight! Hark to the bleating flocks, the lowing herds! In sweet content, the other birds Through the free sky in emulous circles wheel, In pure enjoyment of their happy time: Thou, pensive, gazest on the scene apart, Nor wilt thou join them in the merry round; Shy playmate, thou for mirth hast little heart; And with thy plaintive music, dost consume Both of the year, and of thy life, the bloom.
Alas, how much my ways Resemble thine! The laughter and the sport, That fill with glee our youthful days, And thee, O love, who art youth’s brother still, Too oft the bitter sigh of later years, I care not for; I know not why, But from them ever distant fly: Here in my native place, As if of alien race, My spring of life I like a hermit pass. This day, that to the evening now gives way, Is in our town an ancient holiday. Hark, through the air, that voice of festal bell, While rustic guns in frequent thunders sound, Reverberated from the hills around. In festal robes arrayed, The neighboring youth, Their houses leaving, o’er the roads are spread; They pleasant looks exchange, and in their hearts Rejoice. I, lonely, in this distant spot, Along the country wandering, Postpone all pleasure and delight To some more genial time: meanwhile, As through the sunny air around I gaze, My brow is smitten by his rays, As after such a day serene, Dropping behind yon distant hills, He vanishes, and seems to say, That thus all happy youth must pass away.
Thou, lonely little bird, when thou Hast reached the evening of the days Thy stars assign to thee, Wilt surely not regret thy ways; For all thy wishes are Obedient to Nature’s law. But ah! If I, in spite of all my prayers, Am doomed the hateful threshold of old age To cross, when these dull eyes will give No response to another’s heart, The world to them a void will be, Each day become more full of misery, How then, will this, my wish appear In those dark hours, that dungeon drear? My blighted youth, my sore distress, Alas, will then seem happiness!
THE INFINITE.
This lonely hill to me was ever dear, This hedge, which shuts from view so large a part Of the remote horizon. As I sit And gaze, absorbed, I in my thought conceive The boundless spaces that beyond it range, The silence supernatural, and rest Profound; and for a moment I am calm. And as I listen to the wind, that through These trees is murmuring, its plaintive voice I with that infinite compare; And things eternal I recall, and all The seasons dead, and this, that round me lives, And utters its complaint. Thus wandering My thought in this immensity is drowned; And sweet to me is shipwreck on this sea.
THE EVENING OF THE HOLIDAY.
The night is mild and clear, and without wind, And o’er the roofs, and o’er the gardens round The moon shines soft, and from afar reveals Each mountain-peak serene. O lady, mine, Hushed now is every path, and few and dim The lamps that glimmer through the balconies. Thou sleepest! in thy quiet rooms, how light And easy is thy sleep! No care thy heart Consumes; and little dost thou know or think, How deep a wound thou in my heart hast made. Thou sleepest; I to yonder heaven turn, That seems to greet me with a loving smile, And to that Nature old, omnipotent, That doomed me still to suffer. “I to thee All hope deny,” she said, “e’en hope; nor may Those eyes of thine e’er shine, save through their tears.”
This was a holiday; its pleasures o’er, Thou seek’st repose; and happy in thy dreams Recallest those whom thou hast pleased to-day, And those who have pleased thee: not I, indeed,— I hoped it not,—unto thy thoughts occur. Meanwhile, I ask, how much of life remains To me; and on the earth I cast myself, And cry, and groan. How wretched are my days, And still so young! Hark, on the road I hear, Not far away, the solitary song Of workman, who returns at this late hour, In merry mood, unto his humble home; And in my heart a cruel pang I feel, At thought, how all things earthly pass away, And leave no trace behind. This festal day Hath fled; a working-day now follows it, And all, alike, are swept away by Time. Where is the glory of the antique nations now? Where now the fame of our great ancestors? The empire vast of Rome, the clash of arms? Now all is peace and silence, all the world At rest; their very names are heard no more. E’en from my earliest years, when we Expect so eagerly a holiday, The moment it was past, I sought my couch, Wakeful and sad; and at the midnight hour, When I the song heard of some passer-by, That slowly in the distance died away, The same deep anguish felt I in my heart.