A youth knelt down by a new made grave
Unseen by the world, and wept;—
A sister whose beauty no love could save
Beneath in the darkness slept.
’Twas a calm, sweet eve, and on hill and plain
The summer had lavished her dower;
But the full sad heart of the youth could gain
No solace from sun or flower.
The big warm tears he wiped from his cheek,
As he said with a struggling faith,
“O God, if I could but hear her speak!—
My sister! now thine, O death!”
In silence and sorrow he lingered long,
And just as he rose to depart,
In the heavens was warbled this saintly song,
Which fell like a balm on his heart:
“Beautiful are my walks in the sky,
Beautiful, beautiful!
Here the amaranths never die,
Here the sweet winds murmur and sigh,
Beautiful, beautiful!
“Joyfully glide my golden hours,
Joyfully, joyfully!
Here the leaves of the hyacinth flowers
Whisper around my love-lit bowers:
Joyfully, joyfully!
“Lovingly smile my comrades here,
Lovingly, lovingly!
All the bright shapes of this blissful sphere
Tell how that each unto each is dear,
Lovingly, lovingly!
“Merciful is my Father, my all,
Merciful, merciful!
Here the white-cheeked lilies, so tall,
Sing in their place by the jasper wall:
Merciful, merciful!”
NOTE.—The origin of this lyric may
possibly be of interest. A young friend had lost
an only sister and, in an outburst of passionate
sorrow, had exclaimed “O God if I could hear her
speak.” Brooding over his sorrow, I retired to
rest one evening and without attempting to embody
my sympathy in words, I fell into a quiet slumber
which lasted until day light. On waking, I had
a vivid recollection of having seen in dream
the youth kneeling by his sister’s grave and of
having heard the words of his sister’s spirit
chanted from the empyrean with inexpressible
sweetness as if responding to his yearning
exclamation. The words I heard in my dream I
wrote down immediately lest their exactness and
coherency might be lost. I was not at that time
aware that Kubla Khan originated in a somewhat
similar manner. As the occurrence, if standing
alone, might seem difficult to believe, I refer
to Coleridge’s poem merely to justify in some
degree the publication of such a freak of the
imagination.