Text: Richard Henry Stoddard, “Literariana,” Round Table (New York, NY), vol. I, no. 29, June 4, 1864, p. 393, cols. 1-2

I.

 

Thy soul shall find itself alone

'Mid dark thoughts of the grey tomb-stone —

Not one, of all the crowd, to pry

Into thine hour of secrecy:

 

II.

 

Be silent in that solitude

Which is not loneliness — for then

The spirits of the dead who stood

In life before thee are again

In death around thee — and their will

Shall then overshadow thee: be still.

 

III.

 

For the night — tho' clear — shall frown —

And the stars shall look not down,

From their high thrones in the Heaven,

With light like Hope to mortals given —

But their red orbs, without beam,

To thy weariness shall seem

As a burning and a fever

Which would cling to thee for ever:

 

IV.

 

Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish —

Now are visions ne'er to vanish —

From thy spirit shall they pass

No more — like dew-drop from the grass:

 

V.

 

The breeze — the breath of God — is still —

And the mist upon the hill

Shadowy — shadowy — yet unbroken,

Is a symbol and a token —

How it hangs upon the trees,

A mystery of mysteries! —

Far away — far away —

Far away — as far at least

Lies that valley as the day

Down within the golden east —

All things lovely — are not they

Far away — far away?

 

It is called the valley Nis.

And a Syriac tale there is

Thereabout which Time hath said

Shall not be interpreted.

Something about Satan's dart —

Something about angel wings —

Much about a broken heart —

All about unhappy things:

But “the valley Nis” at best

Means “the valley of unrest.”

 

Once it smil'd a silent dell

Where the people did not dwell,

Having gone unto the wars —

And the sly, mysterious stars,

With a visage full of meaning,

O'er the unguarded flowers were leaning: [column 3:]

Or the sun ray dripp'd all red

Thro' the tulips overhead,

Then grew paler as it fell

On the quiet Asphodel.

 

Now the unhappy shall confess

Nothing there is motionless:

Helen, like thy human eye

There th' uneasy violets lie —

There the reedy grass doth wave

Over the old forgotten grave —

One by one from the tree top

There the eternal dews do drop —

There the vague and dreamy trees

Do roll like seas in northern breeze

Around the stormy Hebrides —

There the gorgeous clouds do fly,

Rustling everlastingly,

Through the terror-stricken sky,

Rolling like a waterfall

O'er th' horizon's fiery wall —

There the moon doth shine by night

With a most unsteady light —

There the sun doth reel by day

“Over the hills and far away.”

I.

 

How shall the burial rite be read?

The solemn song be sung?

The requiem for the loveliest dead,

That ever died so young?

 

II.

 

Her friends are gazing on her,

And on her gaudy bier,

And weep! — oh! to dishonor

Dead beauty with a tear!

 

III.

 

They loved her for her wealth —

And they hated her for her pride —

But she grew in feeble health,

And they love her — that she died.

 

IV.

 

They tell me (while they speak

Of her “costly broider'd pall”)

That my voice is growing weak —

That I should not sing at all —

 

V.

 

Or that my tone should be

Tun'd to such solemn song

So mournfully — so mournfully,

That the dead may feel no wrong.

 

VI.

 

But she is gone above,

With young Hope at her side,

And I am drunk with love

Of the dead, who is my bride. —

 

VII.

 

Of the dead — dead who lies

All perfum'd there,

With the death upon her eyes,

And the life upon her hair.

 

VIII.

 

Thus on the coffin loud and long

I strike — the murmur sent

Through the grey chambers to my song,

Shall be the accompaniment.

 

IX.

 

Thou died'st in thy life's June —

But thou did'st not die too fair:

Thou did'st not die too soon,

Nor with too calm an air.

 

X.

 

From more than fiends on earth,

Thy life and love are riven,

To join the untainted mirth

Of more than thrones in heaven —

 

XII. [[XI.]]

 

Therefore, to thee this night

I will no requiem raise,

But waft thee on thy flight,

With a Pæan of old days.