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the poems of henry abbey

by Abbey Henry

Books » American poetry

Added by: J. Brown "ais...

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Purchase of this book includes free trial access to www.million-books.com where you can read more than a million books for free. This is an OCR edition with typos. Excerpt from book: 0 light, white, bright moon, that dost so fondly shine, There is not a lily in the world but hides its face from thine ; 1 too shall go and hide my face close in the dust from thee, Unless with light and tide thou bring my Donald back to me. IN THE VALLEY. This is the place a grove of sighing pines; Their fallen tassels thatch the roofs with brown, The narrow roofs, beneath whose small confines No dweller wakens: tho' the rains weep down, Tho' winds, the mighty mourners, by the spot Go unconsoled, the inmates waken not. Along the unbusy street my way I keep, Between the houses tenanted by death, And seek the place where lies my friend asleep, Alien to this the life of light and breath. And here his grave, where wild vines bloom and grope, Makes recollection seem as sweet as hope. For he, my friend, was gentle, wise and true; Pleasant to him a beggar's thankful word; He spoke no ill of others, and he knew And loved clear brooks, green dells, and flower, and bird; And now the flowers strive to return his love By growing here his humble grave above. But tears are more than flowers, and make for peace, Tho' God by grief is oft misunderstood. In tears I made complaint of his decease Whom I had loved, for he was young and good; I made complaint that He who rules on high Should suffer here the young and good to die. O Death! sole warder at the gates of time, For ever more to those thy hinge swing wide Whose hope is flown, whose souls are stained with crime Give way to all who are dissatisfied With their recurrent days, and long to cease ; Swing wide for such, and to the old give peace. But close and bar thy black and mournful gates Against the good, the beautiful, the young, Whose lives the lamp of hope ill...

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...Whispered good thoughts, and told this groping heart, That sunset splendors were as naught beside The fadeless glory of a noble deed. He proudly dreamed that to no other mind Had been revealed these trite imaginings. Alas ! poor heart, how many have awoke, 24 KARAGWE. And found their newest thoughts not new but old, Their brightest fancies woven in the silk Of ancient poems, history or romance, And learning still elusive and far off! v. The young quadroon who fainted on the cliff Was Ruth; she, born a thrall to Dalton Earl, Was now a conscious rose of womanhood. She looked on Karagwe, and saw in him A man above the level of the slave, A palm-tree in a wide, neglected land. While both, at twilight, on a rustic seat Sat talking, laughing with that careless mirth In which their race forgot its chains and toil, A drunken overseer staggered up, And seeing a woman sitting in the dusk, Swayed toward her, caught her rudely by the arm, And, with an insult, strove to drag her forth. Ruth...