To My Brother

Brother, where dost thou dwell?

What sun shines for thee now?

Dost thou indeed fare well,

As we wished thee here below?

What season didst thou find?

’Twas winter here.

Are not the Fates more kind

Than they appear?

Is thy brow clear again

As in thy youthful years?

And was that ugly pain

The summit of thy fears?

Yet thou wast cheery still;

They could not quench thy fire;

Thou didst abide their will,

And then retire.

Where chiefly shall I look

To feel thy presence near?

Along the neighboring brook

May I thy voice still hear?

Dost thou still haunt the brink

Of yonder river’s tide?

And may I ever think

That thou art by my side?

What bird wilt thou employ

To bring me word of thee?

For it would give them joy —

’T would give them liberty —

To serve their former lord

With wing and minstrelsy.

A sadder strain mixed with their song,

They’ve slowlier built their nests;

Since thou art gone

Their lively labor rests.

Where is the finch, the thrush,

I used to hear?

Ah, they could well abide

The dying year.

Now they no more return,

I hear them not;