WRITTEN BENEATH AN ELM,In a City Churchyard.Underthy shadow how many recline,Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2]They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart,Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,And faded black coat, once the minister's best?The mattock and shovel support him like staves,As he totters familiarly over the graves.'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,Since the days of his boyhood—and now he is sere;These mounds are his world—he can name all the lairs,As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil—When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name—Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side,I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid;Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade,Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.But bear me away to the limitless sea,And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free:Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot—Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave—I seek not for rest—it is found in the grave—And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast—A link of the future—a wreck of the past.But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,If my bones in the land of decay must recline;Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,And a desolate darkness comes with the night.Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath,The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath;'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep—'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.[2]Micah iv. 4.
Underthy shadow how many recline,Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2]They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart,Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,And faded black coat, once the minister's best?The mattock and shovel support him like staves,As he totters familiarly over the graves.'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,Since the days of his boyhood—and now he is sere;These mounds are his world—he can name all the lairs,As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil—When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name—Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side,I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid;Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade,Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.But bear me away to the limitless sea,And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free:Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot—Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave—I seek not for rest—it is found in the grave—And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast—A link of the future—a wreck of the past.But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,If my bones in the land of decay must recline;Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,And a desolate darkness comes with the night.Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath,The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath;'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep—'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.
Underthy shadow how many recline,Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2]They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart,Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,And faded black coat, once the minister's best?The mattock and shovel support him like staves,As he totters familiarly over the graves.'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,Since the days of his boyhood—and now he is sere;These mounds are his world—he can name all the lairs,As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil—When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name—Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side,I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid;Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade,Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.But bear me away to the limitless sea,And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free:Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot—Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave—I seek not for rest—it is found in the grave—And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast—A link of the future—a wreck of the past.But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,If my bones in the land of decay must recline;Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,And a desolate darkness comes with the night.Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath,The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath;'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep—'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.
Underthy shadow how many recline,Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2]They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart,Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.
Underthy shadow how many recline,
Who never knew rest 'neath the fig-tree or vine![2]
They pass from the banquet, the mall and the mart,
Here they meet, here they mingle, never to part.
Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,And faded black coat, once the minister's best?The mattock and shovel support him like staves,As he totters familiarly over the graves.
Who comes from the porch, with colourless vest,
And faded black coat, once the minister's best?
The mattock and shovel support him like staves,
As he totters familiarly over the graves.
'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,Since the days of his boyhood—and now he is sere;These mounds are his world—he can name all the lairs,As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.
'Tis the hoary old sexton, whose home has been here,
Since the days of his boyhood—and now he is sere;
These mounds are his world—he can name all the lairs,
As a monarch his realms, or a merchant his wares.
Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.
Yet though he apportions a dwelling for all,
And delights when he handles the mattock and pall;
Though his thin hairs are gray, and though feeble his pace,
He ne'er for himself yet has chosen a place.
Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil—When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!
Thou wert here when his sire did this office fulfil—
When the son too is gone, thou wilt blossom here still:
How strange that the grass, and the trees, and the weeds,
Flourish best on that spot whence corruption proceeds!
On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name—Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?
On thy trunk some rude sculptor has carved out his name—
Idle labour! for fleeting and false is such fame:
Lo! wherever we look there is charactered stone,
But to whom is the dust each commemorates known?
Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side,I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid;Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade,Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.
Oh! bury me not by the multitude's side,
I would shun them in death, as in life I avoid;
Where the loathsome newt creeps, 'neath the rank hemlock's shade,
Is not where I would that my bones should be laid.
But bear me away to the limitless sea,And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free:Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot—Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.
But bear me away to the limitless sea,
And heave me afar 'mong its billows so free:
Where my flesh may be wasted, but never shall rot—
Where man is not dust, and corruption is not.
Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave—I seek not for rest—it is found in the grave—And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast—A link of the future—a wreck of the past.
Oh delight! to be tost from wild wave to wild wave—
I seek not for rest—it is found in the grave—
And my skeleton bleach on the foam it is cast—
A link of the future—a wreck of the past.
But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,If my bones in the land of decay must recline;Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.
But alas! if the doom of my kind must be mine,
If my bones in the land of decay must recline;
Seek me out some lone glen, some wild Highland vale,
Where the tempest's loud shriek shall my coronach wail.
A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,And a desolate darkness comes with the night.
A rude rugged land, with a wild heather sod,
Where the sun never shone, where man's foot never trod;
Where the gleam of the day falls with withering blight,
And a desolate darkness comes with the night.
Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath,The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath;'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep—'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.
Where the waterfall roars like a storm o'er the heath,
The scathed Pine above, and the hoar Elm beneath;
'Mongst the lone, and the mighty, the vast and the deep—
'Tis there, as their own, that a Poet should sleep.
[2]Micah iv. 4.
[2]Micah iv. 4.