STANZAS. My life is like the prints, which feet All trace will vanish from the sand, All vestige of the human race, On that lone shore loud moans the sea, But none, alas! shall mourn for me! 93 THE DYING RAVEN. BY R. H. DANA. COME to these lonely woods to die alone? It seems not many days since thou wast heard, From out the mists of spring, with thy shrill note, Calling upon thy mates-and their clear answers. The earth was brown, then; and the infant leaves Had not put forth to warm them in the sun, Or play in the fresh air of heaven. Thy voice, Shouting in triumph, told of winter gone, And prophesying life to the sealed ground, Did make me glad with thoughts of coming beauties. In blessed bands, or single, they are gone, Or by her brooks they stand, and sip the stream, Or peering o'er it-vanity well feigned In quaint approval seem to glow and nod 35 95 THE DYING RAVEN. To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees, Over my head the winds and they make music; And, grateful, in return for what they take, Thus mutual love brings mutual delight- Thou Prophet of so fair a revelation Thou who abodest with us the winter long, Enduring cold or rain, and shaking oft, From thy dark mantle, falling sleet or snow Thou, who with purpose kind, when warmer days Shone on the earth, 'mid thaw and steam, camest forth From rocky nook, or wood, thy priestly cell, To speak of comfort unto lonely man― 96 THE DYING RAVEN. More thou saidst, Thou Priest of Nature, Priest of God, to man! Of spirits near him though he saw them not: And see his solitude all populous: Thou showedst him Paradise, and deathless flowers; And didst him pray to listen to the flow Of living waters. Preacher to man's spirit! Emblem of Hope! Companion! Comforter! Thy kingly strength, thou conqueror of storms, The year's mild, cheering dawn Upon thee shone a momentary light. THE DYING RAVEN. 15 97 In silence open their fair, painted folds To ease thy pain, the one-to cheer thee, these. They seem to me. Their silence to my soul Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird, No silence.-Near thee stands the shadow, Death;- Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call Thou 'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds, Wilt sail no more. Around thy trembling claws Laid thus low by age? Or is 't All-grudging man has brought thee to this end? Perhaps the slender hair, so subtly wound Around the grain God gives thee for thy food, Has proved thy snare, and makes thine inward pain, |