The Early Dead

No process slow of dull decay
The fire of life abated,
With garlands fresh and dewy they
Its banquet left unsated.
They vanished in the mists of death
Ere o’er them fell a shadow,
And now they draw immortal breath
In happy isle or meadow.

More blest than we, who mourned their fate,
These guests who early hasted;
They lingered not like us too late,
But left the lees untasted.
They quaffed the bubbles on the brim
From beakers full and flowing;
Our mirth was hushed, our eyes were dim
With tears, at their outgoing.

But soon we wiped our tears away;
Again the viol sounding
Bade joy resume its festal sway
And kept our pulses bounding.
Long since the noise of revel died,
Our pulses lost their madness,
And in the calm of eventide
We feel the touch of sadness.

From that boon country in the South,
To which they sped before us,
Oft come those long-lost mates of youth
In dreams, and hover o’er us.
Our locks are gray; our hearts are worn;
Care e’en our sleep invadeth;
They come from bowers of youth and morn,
Where leaf nor blossom fadeth.

They come with airs and scents of May,
These guests from vales Elysian;
They shun the glare and din of day,
But haunt the nightly vision.
Oh well for us that dreamland opes
At night its mystic portal,
Through which, rekindling faded hopes,
Glide visitants immortal!