4566881Poems — The Requiem of the DoveMartha Lavinia Hoffman
"Tall mariposa tulips smile, among the reeds and rushes"
THE REQUIEM OF THE DOVE
Across the marshes' willowy fringe and seas of sunlight golden, Across the meadows purple-tinged with buds but half unfolden, Where helpless, yearning tendrils cling, And fancied fairies lightly swing, With all the gladsome springtime bloom that brooks no phantom thought of gloom, Is blent one song of sorrow.
Who is the bard that dares to sing one note of aught but gladness? Who is the sprite that comes to ring one floral bell in sadness? When perched upon the mossy wall The meadow lark is prince of all, While joy ecstatic at his call resounds from mere to mountain.
From orange groves and spicy isles gay minstrels are returning, While roses glow with sunny smiles, their blush to ashes burning, Stray ripples laugh through banks of fern, Grim rocks the gladsome message learn, The trees rejoice at Spring's return, and clap their hands for gladness.
But over all this vernal glee 'midst Nature's reckless wooing, Intrudes like sorrow's prophecy a mournful, plaintive cooing; Somewhere a lonely songster sings Of scattered leaves and vanished springs, And all her pent-up anguish brings to mock the joy of Nature.
Wild thickets, dense with briers and weeds, are glad with sounds of pleasure, On grassy slopes the shy fawn feeds and gambols at his leisure; But one sad seeress from her hill Casts over all an icy chill, Sways the rapt listener at her will, and floods his soul with sadness.
How canst thou come, thou mournful one, each breeze with sorrow loading? Why chant beneath a smiling sun one note of dark foreboding? When light is dancing in the dells, When music through the forest swells, And fairies ring their dewy bells, why chant that all are dying?
Tall mariposa tulips smile, among the reeds and rushes Wild tiger-lilies droop the while to hide their conscious blushes; But still from meadows far away Resounds that plaintive, mournful lay, Rebuking all the thoughtless play of Nature's artless children.
Come in the Autumn, dauntless seer, when withered leaves are falling, Then is the time o'er Nature's bier to mind thy mournful calling; But not in Spring's supernal bloom Should Nature whisper of the tomb, Or prophets come with thoughts of gloom to blight her youth and beauty.
But still from out her lonely haunt is borne her sad replying: There is of youth no lasting font, there is no end but dying, The flowers that on the hillsides bloom And all that share their sweet perfume Shall mingle in one common tomb, for all but love is dying.
Awake, rapt songsters of the grove, and sing of mirth and gladness, Drown with the melodies of love that solemn voice of sadness; The winds her mournful omens waft, Then let them bear your notes aloft, Ye at the font of love have quaffed, and love shall live forever.
Hark! what a mingled burst of sound with every breath more thrilling, From ridge to ridge its echoes bound, the loftiest hope fulfilling, Wild rapture rends the balmy air, Soft carols find an echo there, The dove's low requiem has its share in Spring's complete outpouring.
Join with the rest, thou gentle dove; there is no song of gladness But grows more tenderly complete when linked with notes of sadness, Then chant thy sweet, pathetic strain, Spring waits to hear thy soft refrain, Calling her to accept a throne Where gladness cannot reign alone, but joy and grief are blending.
