THE DYING RAVEN BY R. H. DANA. COME to these lonely woods to die alone? 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. 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 To deck their bosoms. There, on high, bald trees, Over my head the winds and they make music; 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 To speak of comfort unto lonely man— 95 96 30 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 gales of spring upbore thee for a day, THE DYING RAVEN. In silence open their fair, painted folds— To ease thy pain, the one—to cheer thee, these. Intelligent and capable of voice They seem to me. Their silence to my soul Comes ominous. The same to thee, doomed bird, Over thine eyes; thy senses softly lulls Into unconscious slumbers. The airy call Thou 'lt hear no longer; 'neath sun-lighted clouds, 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. 97 98 THE DYING RAVEN. I needs must mourn for thee. For I-who have No fields, nor gather into garners-I Bear thee both thanks and love, not fear nor hate. And now, farewell! The falling leaves, ere long, Will give thee decent covering. Till then, Thine own black plumage, that will now no more Glance to the sun, nor flash upon my eyes, Like armour of steeled knight of Palestine, Must be thy pall. Nor will it moult so soon As sorrowing thoughts on those borne from him, fade In living man. Who scoffs these sympathies, Makes mock of the divinity within; Nor feels he gently breathing through his soul, The universal spirit.-Hear it cry, "How does thy pride abase thee, man, vain man! How deaden thee to universal love, And joy of kindred with all humble things- And surely it is so. He who the lily clothes in simple glory, Our hearts may read.-Death bring thee rest, poor bird. |