Her friends are gazing on her, And on her gaudy bier, And weep!—oh! to dishonour Dead beauty with a tear! They loved her for her wealth— And they hated her for her pride— But she grew in feeble health, And they _love_ her—that she died. They tell me (while they speak Of her “costly broider’d pall”) That my voice is growing weak— That I should not sing at all— Or that my tone should be Tuned to such solemn song So mournfully—so mournfully, That the dead may feel no wrong. But she is gone above, With young Hope at her side, And I am drunk with love Of the dead, who is my bride.— Of the dead—dead who lies All perfumed there, With the death upon her eyes, And the life upon her hair. Thus on the coffin loud and long I strike—the murmur sent Through the grey chambers to my song, Shall be the accompaniment. Thou diedst in thy life’s June— But thou didst not die too fair: Thou didst not die too soon, Nor with too calm an air. From more than friends on earth, Thy life and love are riven, To join the untainted mirth Of more than thrones in heaven.— Therefore, to thee this night I will no requiem raise, But waft thee on thy flight, With a Pæan of old days. THE HAPPIEST DAY [Illustration] The happiest day—the happiest hour My seared and blighted heart hath known, The highest hope of pride and power, I feel hath flown. Of power! said I? Yes! such I ween But they have vanished long, alas! The visions of my youth have been— But let them pass. And pride, what have I now with thee? Another brow may ev’n inherit The venom thou hast poured on me— Be still my spirit! The happiest day—the happiest hour Mine eyes shall see—have ever seen The brightest glance of pride and power I feel have been: But were that hope of pride and power Now offered with the pain Ev’n _then_ I felt—that brightest hour I would not live again: For on its wing was dark alloy And as it fluttered—fell An essence—powerful to destroy A soul that knew it well. [Illustration] ALONE From childhood’s hour I have not been As others were—I have not seen As others saw—I could not bring My passions from a common spring. From the same source I have not taken My sorrow—I could not awaken My heart to joy at the same tone— And all I loved, _I_ loved alone. Then—in my childhood—in the dawn Of a most stormy life—was drawn From every depth of good and ill The mystery which binds me still— From the torrent, or the fountain— From the red cliff of the mountain— From the sun that round me rolled In its autumn tint of gold— From the lightning in the sky As it passed me flying by— From the thunder and the storm— And the cloud that took the form (When the rest of Heaven was blue) Of a demon in my view. [Illustration] STANZAS [Illustration]