Rememberest thou that solemn eventide
When last we parted? we had wandered forth
Down that steep hill–path to the level moor;
It was not long before the golden sun
Wheeled sloping to the western mountain’s brink,
And presently a canopy of clouds
Folded him in with curtains of deep fire–
And so he sunk, slow and majestical,
Leaving a wake of glory; every bird
Sung his last carol, poised upon his branch
Of night–repose, and every little flower
Closed in its beauties in its drooping breast.
We sat upon the green marge of a stream
Reed–skirted, and the fragments of faint light
Leapt in and out among the yellow stalks,
Or peacefully reposed within the breast
Of the mid–river. Our discourse had been
Of infancy and youth: the hills of fern
And meadows of thick cowslips floated past
Our mental vision, and a faint sweet smell
Seemed half to come upon some inward sense.
But we had ceased to speak, and on our ear
Dwelt the last words with oft–recurring sound,
Mingling most fitly with the distant fall,
And the low booming of the passing dorr.
I told thee, ere we parted home that night,
A thousand undistinguishable fears
Of heavy days to come; I mourned to see
Beauty and freedom–in the daily talk
Of men heard frequent, on the lips of all
A constant theme, undying sounds that set
The slumbering spirit of mankind on work–
That they were names alone; that the dull age
Knows not their presence passing daily by,
And seeks them where they dwell not; that we throw
Our dowry of sweet peace unto the winds;
That we have proudly sought and duly earned
A desolating curse from righteous Heaven.
Perchance thou art too young, and that smooth brow
Built upwards through thy gently–crisp
(Henry Alford)
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