My Brother

Forever gone! I am alone — alone!
Yet my heart doubts; to me thou livest yet:
Love's lingering twilight o'er my soul is thrown,
E'en when the orb that lent that light is set.
Thou minglest with my hopes — does Hope forget?
I think of thee, as thou wert at my side;
I grieve, a whisper — "he too will regret;"
I doubt and ponder — "how will he decide"!"
I strive, but ' tis to win thy praises and thy pride.
For I thy praise could win — thy praise sincere.
How lovedst thou me — with more than woman's love!
And thou to me wert e'en as honor dear!
Nature in one fond woof our spirits wove:
Like wedded vines enclasping in the grove,
We grew. Ah! withered now the fairer vine!
But from the living who the dead can move?
Blending their sere and green leaves, there they twine,
And will, till dust to dust shall mingle mine with thine.
The sunshine of our boyhood! I bethink
How we were wont to beat the briery wood;
Or clamber, boastful, up the craggy brink,
Where the rent mountain frowns upon the flood
That thrids that vale of beauty and of blood,
Sad Wyoming! The whispering past will tell,
How by the silver-browed cascade we stood,
And watched the sunlit waters as they fell
(So youth drops in the grave) down in the shadowy dell.
And how we plunged in Lackawana's wave;
The wild-fowl startled, when to echo gay,
In that hushed dell, glad laugh and shout we gave.
Or on the shaded hill-side how we lay,
And watched the bright rack on its beamy way,
Dreaming high dreams of glory and of pride;
What heroes we, in freedom's deadliest fray!
How poured we gladly forth life's ruddy tide,
Looked to our skyey flag, and shouted, smiled, and died!
Bright dreams — forever past! I dream no more!
Memory is now my being: her sweet tone
Can, like a spirit-spell, the lost restore —
My tried, my true, my brave, bright-thoughted one!
Few have a friend — and such a friend! But none
Have, in this bleak world, more than one; and he,
Ever mine own, mine only — he is gone?
He fell — as hope had promised — for the free:
Our early dream, — alas! it was no dream to thee!
We were not near thee! Oh! I would have given,
To pillow in my arms thy aching head.
All that I love of earth or hope of heaven!
But strangers laid thee in thy prairie-bed;
And though the drum was rolled, and tears were shed,
'T was not by those who loved thee first and best.
Now waves the billowy grass above the dead;
The prairie-herd tread on thy throbless breast;
Woe 'smell may not weep above thy place of rest.
Now must I turn to stone! Fair virtue, truth,
Faith, love, were living things when thou wert here;
We shared a world, bright with the dew of youth,
And spanned by rainbow thoughts. Our souls sincere
Knew, in their love, nor selfish taint, nor fear:
We would have smiled, and for each other died!
All this to us how real and how dear!
But now my bosom's welling founts are dried,
Or pour, like ice-bound streams, a chilled and voiceless tide.
Must it be ever thus? The festive hour
Is festive now no more; for dimpling joy
Smiles with thy smile; and music's melting power
Speaks to my soul of thee! The struggling sigh
Chokes the faint laugh; and from my swimming eye,
The tear-drop trickling, turns my cup to gall;
E'en as the hour that bade thee, brother, die,
Mingles with all my days and poisons all,
Mantling my life with gloom, as with a dead man's pall.
Oh, may not men, like strings that chord in tone,
Mingle their spirits, and hereafter be
One in their nature, in their being one?
And may I not be blended thus with thee?
Parted in body, brother, bore not we
The self-same soul! Ah me! with restless pain,
My halved spirit yearneth to be free,
And clasp its other self: for I would fain,
Brother, be with the dead, to be with thee again!