138
OCTOBER.
But who was this lone sleeper,
This lowly, slumbering frame—
Does memory recall no deed
To consecrate his name?
This lowly, slumbering frame—
Does memory recall no deed
To consecrate his name?
Is there no proud endeavor
From oblivion's waters cast;
No burst of intellectual lire
Snatched from the traceless past?
From oblivion's waters cast;
No burst of intellectual lire
Snatched from the traceless past?
Thou cloud-enfolded forest,
Thou hast no answering tone!
The same sad silence reigns around—
Thy secret is thine own!
Thou hast no answering tone!
The same sad silence reigns around—
Thy secret is thine own!
So rest, thou lonely sleeper,
From life's weary tempest- wave,
The solitary tenant of
A solitary grave!
From life's weary tempest- wave,
The solitary tenant of
A solitary grave!
OCTOBER.
Beautiful month! from its spirit-home,
Whence does the light of thy presence come?
I see it play on the changing leaf,
Like silent thoughts on the brow of grief;
And the pensive glance of thine azure skies
Is full of a thousand memories;
And the earth is sad with thy swift decline,
And my spirit is sad as the smile of thine!
Whence does the light of thy presence come?
I see it play on the changing leaf,
Like silent thoughts on the brow of grief;
And the pensive glance of thine azure skies
Is full of a thousand memories;
And the earth is sad with thy swift decline,
And my spirit is sad as the smile of thine!
