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I WHEN I remember them, those friends of mine, | |
| Who are no longer here, the noble three, | |
| Who half my life were more than friends to me, | |
| And whose discourse was like a generous wine, | |
| I most of all remember the divine | 5 |
| Something, that shone in them, and made us see | |
| The archetypal man, and what might be | |
| The amplitude of Nature’s first design. | |
| In vain I stretch my hands to clasp their hands; | |
| I cannot find them. Nothing now is left | 10 |
| But a majestic memory. They meanwhile | |
| Wander together in Elysian lands, | |
| Perchance remembering me, who am bereft | |
| Of their dear presence, and, remembering, smile. | |
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II In Attica thy birthplace should have been, | 15 |
| Or the Ionian Isles, or where the seas | |
| Encircle in their arms the Cyclades, | |
| So wholly Greek wast thou in thy serene | |
| And childlike joy of life, O Philhellene! | |
| Around thee would have swarmed the Attic bees; | 20 |
| Homer had been thy friend, or Socrates, | |
| And Plato welcomed thee to his demesne. | |
| For thee old legends breathed historic breath; | |
| Thou sawest Poseidon in the purple sea, | |
| And in the sunset Jason’s fleece of gold! | 25 |
| Oh, what hadst thou to do with cruel Death, | |
| Who wast so full of life, or Death with thee, | |
| That thou shouldst die before thou hadst grown old! | |
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III I stand again on the familiar shore, | |
| And hear the waves of the distracted sea | 30 |
| Piteously calling and lamenting thee, | |
| And waiting restless at thy cottage door. | |
| The rocks, the sea-weed on the ocean floor, | |
| The willows in the meadow, and the free | |
| Wild winds of the Atlantic welcome me; | 35 |
| Then why shouldst thou be dead, and come no more? | |
| Ah, why shouldst thou be dead, when common men | |
| Are busy with their trivial affairs, | |
| Having and holding? Why, when thou hadst read | |
| Nature’s mysterious manuscript, and then | 40 |
| Wast ready to reveal the truth it bears, | |
| Why art thou silent? Why shouldst thou be dead? | |
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IV River, that stealest with such silent pace | |
| Around the City of the Dead, where lies | |
| A friend who bore thy name, and whom these eyes | 45 |
| Shall see no more in his accustomed place, | |
| Linger and fold him in thy soft embrace, | |
| And say good night, for now the western skies | |
| Are red with sunset, and gray mists arise | |
| Like damps that gather on a dead man’s face. | 50 |
| Good night! good night! as we so oft have said | |
| Beneath this roof at midnight, in the days | |
| That are no more, and shall no more return. | |
| Thou hast but taken thy lamp and gone to bed; | |
| I stay a little longer, as one stays | 55 |
| To cover up the embers that still burn. | |
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V The doors are all wide open; at the gate | |
| The blossomed lilacs counterfeit a blaze, | |
| And seem to warm the air; a dreamy haze | |
| Hangs o’er the Brighton meadows like a fate, | 60 |
| And on their margin, with sea-tides elate, | |
| The flooded Charles, as in the happier days, | |
| Writes the last letter of his name, and stays | |
| His restless steps, as if compelled to wait. | |
| I also wait; but they will come no more, | 65 |
| Those friends of mine, whose presence satisfied | |
| The thirst and hunger of my heart. Ah me! | |
| They have forgotten the pathway to my door! | |
| Something is gone from nature since they died, | |
| And summer is not summer, nor can be. | 70 |
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