LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,Where we sat side by sideOn a bright May mornin' long ago,When first you were my bride;The corn was springin' fresh and green.And the lark sang loud and high—And the red was on your lip, Mary,And the love-light in your eye.The place is little changed, Mary;The day is bright as then;The lark's loud song is in my ear,And the corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,And your breath, warm on my cheek;And I still keep list'nin' for the wordsYou nevermore will speak.'Tis but a step down yonder lane,And the little church stands near—The church where we were wed, Mary;I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary,And my step might break your rest—For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,With your baby on your breast.I'm very lonely now, Mary.For the poor make no new friends:But, oh, they love the better stillThe few our Father sends!And you were all I had, Mary—My blessin' and my pride!There's nothing left to care for now,Since my poor Mary died.Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on.When the trust in God had left my soul,And my arm's young strength was gone;There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow,—I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you cannot hear me now.I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break,—When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,And you hid it for my sake;I bless you for the pleasant word,When your heart was sad and sore,—O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can't reach you more!I'm biddin' you a long farewell,My Mary—kind and true!But I'll not forget you, darling,In the land I'm goin' to;They say there 's bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there—But I'll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair!And often in those grand old woodsI'll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back againTo the place where Mary lies;And I'll think I see the little stileWhere we sat side by side,And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,When first you were my bride.LADY DUFFERIN.
LAMENT OF THE IRISH EMIGRANT.
I'm sittin' on the stile, Mary,Where we sat side by sideOn a bright May mornin' long ago,When first you were my bride;The corn was springin' fresh and green.And the lark sang loud and high—And the red was on your lip, Mary,And the love-light in your eye.
The place is little changed, Mary;The day is bright as then;The lark's loud song is in my ear,And the corn is green again;But I miss the soft clasp of your hand,And your breath, warm on my cheek;And I still keep list'nin' for the wordsYou nevermore will speak.
'Tis but a step down yonder lane,And the little church stands near—The church where we were wed, Mary;I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary,And my step might break your rest—For I've laid you, darling! down to sleep,With your baby on your breast.
I'm very lonely now, Mary.For the poor make no new friends:But, oh, they love the better stillThe few our Father sends!And you were all I had, Mary—My blessin' and my pride!There's nothing left to care for now,Since my poor Mary died.
Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary,That still kept hoping on.When the trust in God had left my soul,And my arm's young strength was gone;There was comfort ever on your lip,And the kind look on your brow,—I bless you, Mary, for that same,Though you cannot hear me now.
I thank you for the patient smileWhen your heart was fit to break,—When the hunger-pain was gnawin' there,And you hid it for my sake;I bless you for the pleasant word,When your heart was sad and sore,—O, I'm thankful you are gone, Mary,Where grief can't reach you more!
I'm biddin' you a long farewell,My Mary—kind and true!But I'll not forget you, darling,In the land I'm goin' to;They say there 's bread and work for all,And the sun shines always there—But I'll not forget old Ireland,Were it fifty times as fair!
And often in those grand old woodsI'll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back againTo the place where Mary lies;And I'll think I see the little stileWhere we sat side by side,And the springin' corn, and the bright May morn,When first you were my bride.
LADY DUFFERIN.
HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD.FROM "THE PRINCESS."Home they brought her warrior dead:She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;All her maidens, watching, said,"She must weep or she will die."Then they praised him, soft and low,Called him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;Yet she neither spoke nor moved.Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stept,Took the face-cloth from the face;Yet she neither moved nor wept.Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee,—Like summer tempest came her tears,"Sweet my child, I live for thee."ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
HOME THEY BROUGHT HER WARRIOR DEAD.
FROM "THE PRINCESS."
Home they brought her warrior dead:She nor swooned, nor uttered cry;All her maidens, watching, said,"She must weep or she will die."
Then they praised him, soft and low,Called him worthy to be loved,Truest friend and noblest foe;Yet she neither spoke nor moved.
Stole a maiden from her place,Lightly to the warrior stept,Took the face-cloth from the face;Yet she neither moved nor wept.
Rose a nurse of ninety years,Set his child upon her knee,—Like summer tempest came her tears,"Sweet my child, I live for thee."
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.Word was brought to the Danish king(Hurry!)That the love of his heart lay suffering,And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;(O, ride as though you were flying!)Better he loves each golden curlOn the brow of that Scandinavian girlThan his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:And his rose of the isles is dying!Thirty nobles saddled with speed;(Hurry!)Each one mounting a gallant steedWhich he kept for battle and days of need;(O, ride as though you were flying!)Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;Worn out chargers staggered and sank;Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;But ride as they would, the king rode first,For his rose of the isles lay dying!His nobles are beaten, one by one;(Hurry!)They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;His little fair page now follows alone,For strength and for courage trying!The king looked back at that faithful child;Wan was the face that answering smiled;They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,Then he dropped; and only the king rode inWhere his rose of the isles lay dying!The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;(Silence!)No answer came; but faint and forlornAn echo returned on the cold gray morn,Like the breath of a spirit sighing.The castle portal stood grimly wide;None welcomed the king from that weary ride;For dead, in the light of the dawning day,The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,Who had yearned for his voice while dying!The panting steed, with a drooping crest,Stood weary.The king returned from her chamber of rest,The thick sobs choking in his breast;And, that dumb companion eyeing,The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;He bowed his head on his charger's neck:"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,Dear steed, our ride hath been in vainTo the halls where my love lay dying!"CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.
THE KING OF DENMARK'S RIDE.
Word was brought to the Danish king(Hurry!)That the love of his heart lay suffering,And pined for the comfort his voice would bring;(O, ride as though you were flying!)Better he loves each golden curlOn the brow of that Scandinavian girlThan his rich crown jewels of ruby and pearl:And his rose of the isles is dying!
Thirty nobles saddled with speed;(Hurry!)Each one mounting a gallant steedWhich he kept for battle and days of need;(O, ride as though you were flying!)Spurs were struck in the foaming flank;Worn out chargers staggered and sank;Bridles were slackened, and girths were burst;But ride as they would, the king rode first,For his rose of the isles lay dying!
His nobles are beaten, one by one;(Hurry!)They have fainted, and faltered, and homeward gone;His little fair page now follows alone,For strength and for courage trying!The king looked back at that faithful child;Wan was the face that answering smiled;They passed the drawbridge with clattering din,Then he dropped; and only the king rode inWhere his rose of the isles lay dying!
The king blew a blast on his bugle horn;(Silence!)No answer came; but faint and forlornAn echo returned on the cold gray morn,Like the breath of a spirit sighing.The castle portal stood grimly wide;None welcomed the king from that weary ride;For dead, in the light of the dawning day,The pale sweet form of the welcomer lay,Who had yearned for his voice while dying!
The panting steed, with a drooping crest,Stood weary.The king returned from her chamber of rest,The thick sobs choking in his breast;And, that dumb companion eyeing,The tears gushed forth which he strove to check;He bowed his head on his charger's neck:"O steed, that every nerve didst strain,Dear steed, our ride hath been in vainTo the halls where my love lay dying!"
CAROLINE E.S. NORTON.
GRIEF.FROM "HAMLET," ACT I. SC. 2.QUEEN.—Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.Do not, forever, with thy veiled lidsSeek for thy noble father in the dust:Thou know'st 'tis common,—all that live must die,Passing through nature to eternity.HAMLET.—Ay, madam, it is common.QUEEN.—If it be,Why seems it so particular with thee?HAMLET.—Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,Nor customary suits of solemn black,Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,Nor the dejected havior of the visage,Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,For they are actions that a man might play:But I have that within, which passeth show;These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.SHAKESPEARE.
GRIEF.
FROM "HAMLET," ACT I. SC. 2.
QUEEN.—Good Hamlet, cast thy nighted color off,And let thine eye look like a friend on Denmark.Do not, forever, with thy veiled lidsSeek for thy noble father in the dust:Thou know'st 'tis common,—all that live must die,Passing through nature to eternity.HAMLET.—Ay, madam, it is common.QUEEN.—If it be,Why seems it so particular with thee?HAMLET.—Seems, madam! nay, it is; I know not seems.'Tis not alone my inky cloak, good mother,Nor customary suits of solemn black,Nor windy suspiration of forced breath,No, nor the fruitful river in the eye,Nor the dejected havior of the visage,Together with all forms, modes, shows of grief,That can denote me truly: these, indeed, seem,For they are actions that a man might play:But I have that within, which passeth show;These, but the trappings and the suits of woe.
SHAKESPEARE.
SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM."[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1833.]GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE.V.I sometimes hold it half a sinTo put in words the grief I feel:For words, like Nature, half revealAnd half conceal the Soul within.But, for the unquiet heart and brain,A use in measured language lies;The sad mechanic exercise,Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,Like coarsest clothes against the cold;But that large grief which these enfoldIs given in outline and no more.DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND.IX.Fair ship, that from the Italian shoreSailest the placid ocean-plainsWith my lost Arthur's loved remains,Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.So draw him home to those that mournIn vain; a favorable speedRuffle thy mirrored mast, and leadThrough prosperous floods his holy urn.All night no ruder air perplexThy sliding keel, till Phosphor, brightAs our pure love, through early lightShall glimmer on the dewy decks.Sphere all your lights around, above;Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,My friend, the brother of my love;My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widowed race be run;Dear as the mother to the son,More than my brothers are to me.THE PEACE OF SORROWXI.Calm is the morn without a sound,Calm as to suit a calmer grief,And only through the faded leafThe chestnut pattering to the ground:Calm and deep peace on this high woldAnd on these dews that drench the furze,And all the silvery gossamersThat twinkle into green and gold:Calm and still light on yon great plainThat sweeps with all its autumn bowers,And crowded farms, and lessening towers,To mingle with the bounding main:Calm and deep peace in this wide air,These leaves that redden to the fall;And in my heart, if calm at all,If any calm, a calm despair:Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,And waves that sway themselves in rest,And dead calm in that noble breastWhich heaves but with the heaving deep.TIME AND ETERNITY.XLII.If Sleep and Death be truly one,And every spirit's folded bloomThrough all its intervital gloomIn some long trance should slumber on;Unconscious of the sliding hour,Bare of the body, might it last,And silent traces of the pastBe all the color of the flower:So then were nothing lost to man;So that still garden of the soulsIn many a figured leaf enrollsThe total world since life began;And love will last as pure and wholeAs when he loved me here in Time,And at the spiritual primeRewaken with the dawning soul.PERSONAL RESURRECTION.XLVI.That each, who seems a separate whole,Should move his rounds, and fusing allThe skirts of self again, should fallRemerging in the general Soul,Is faith as vague as all unsweet:Eternal form shall still divideThe eternal soul from all beside;And I shall know him when we meet:And we shall sit at endless feast,Enjoying each the other's good:What vaster dream can hit the moodOf Love on earth? He seeks at leastUpon the last and sharpest height,Before the spirits fade away,Some landing-place to clasp and say,"Farewell! We lose ourselves in light."SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP.XCIII.How pure at heart and sound in head,With what divine affections bold,Should be the man whose thought would holdAn hour's communion with the dead.In vain shalt thou, or any, callThe spirits from their golden day,Except, like them, thou too canst say,My spirit is at peace with all.They haunt the silence of the breast,Imaginations calm and fair,The memory like a cloudless air,The conscience as a sea at rest:But when the heart is full of din,And doubt beside the portal waits,They can but listen at the gates,And hear the household jar within.L.Do we indeed desire the deadShould still be near us at our side?Is there no baseness we would hide?No inner vileness that we dread?Shall he for whose applause I strove,I had such reverence for his blame,See with clear eye some hidden shame,And I be lessened in his love?I wrong the grave with fears untrue:Shall love be blamed for want of faith?There must be wisdom with great Death:The dead shall look me through and through.Be near us when we climb or fall:Ye watch, like God, the rolling hoursWith larger other eyes than ours,To make allowance for us all.DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME.LXXII.So many worlds, so much to do,So little done, such things to be,How know I what had need of thee?For thou wert strong as thou wert true.The fame is quenched that I foresaw,The head hath missed an earthly wreath:I curse not nature, no, nor death;For nothing is that errs from law.We pass; the path that each man trodIs dim, or will be dim, with weeds:What fame is left for human deedsIn endless age? It rests with God.O hollow wraith of dying fame,Fade wholly, while the soul exults,And self-enfolds the large resultsOf force that would have forged a name.THE POET'S TRIBUTE.LXXVI.What hope is here for modern rhymeTo him who turns a musing eyeOn songs, and deeds, and lives, that lieForeshortened in the tract of time?These mortal lullabies of painMay bind a book, may line a box,May serve to curl a maiden's locks:Or when a thousand moons shall waneA man upon a stall may find,And, passing, turn the page that tells.A grief, then changed to something else,Sung by a long-forgotten mind.But what of that? My darkened waysShall ring with music all the same;To breathe my loss is more than fame,To utter love more sweet than praise.ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
SELECTIONS FROM "IN MEMORIAM."
[ARTHUR HENRY HALLAM, OB. 1833.]
GRIEF UNSPEAKABLE.
V.
I sometimes hold it half a sinTo put in words the grief I feel:For words, like Nature, half revealAnd half conceal the Soul within.
But, for the unquiet heart and brain,A use in measured language lies;The sad mechanic exercise,Like dull narcotics, numbing pain.
In words, like weeds, I'll wrap me o'er,Like coarsest clothes against the cold;But that large grief which these enfoldIs given in outline and no more.
DEAD, IN A FOREIGN LAND.
IX.
Fair ship, that from the Italian shoreSailest the placid ocean-plainsWith my lost Arthur's loved remains,Spread thy full wings, and waft him o'er.
So draw him home to those that mournIn vain; a favorable speedRuffle thy mirrored mast, and leadThrough prosperous floods his holy urn.
All night no ruder air perplexThy sliding keel, till Phosphor, brightAs our pure love, through early lightShall glimmer on the dewy decks.
Sphere all your lights around, above;Sleep, gentle heavens, before the prow;Sleep, gentle winds, as he sleeps now,My friend, the brother of my love;
My Arthur, whom I shall not seeTill all my widowed race be run;Dear as the mother to the son,More than my brothers are to me.
THE PEACE OF SORROW
XI.
Calm is the morn without a sound,Calm as to suit a calmer grief,And only through the faded leafThe chestnut pattering to the ground:
Calm and deep peace on this high woldAnd on these dews that drench the furze,And all the silvery gossamersThat twinkle into green and gold:
Calm and still light on yon great plainThat sweeps with all its autumn bowers,And crowded farms, and lessening towers,To mingle with the bounding main:
Calm and deep peace in this wide air,These leaves that redden to the fall;And in my heart, if calm at all,If any calm, a calm despair:
Calm on the seas, and silver sleep,And waves that sway themselves in rest,And dead calm in that noble breastWhich heaves but with the heaving deep.
TIME AND ETERNITY.
XLII.
If Sleep and Death be truly one,And every spirit's folded bloomThrough all its intervital gloomIn some long trance should slumber on;
Unconscious of the sliding hour,Bare of the body, might it last,And silent traces of the pastBe all the color of the flower:
So then were nothing lost to man;So that still garden of the soulsIn many a figured leaf enrollsThe total world since life began;
And love will last as pure and wholeAs when he loved me here in Time,And at the spiritual primeRewaken with the dawning soul.
PERSONAL RESURRECTION.
XLVI.
That each, who seems a separate whole,Should move his rounds, and fusing allThe skirts of self again, should fallRemerging in the general Soul,
Is faith as vague as all unsweet:Eternal form shall still divideThe eternal soul from all beside;And I shall know him when we meet:
And we shall sit at endless feast,Enjoying each the other's good:What vaster dream can hit the moodOf Love on earth? He seeks at least
Upon the last and sharpest height,Before the spirits fade away,Some landing-place to clasp and say,"Farewell! We lose ourselves in light."
SPIRITUAL COMPANIONSHIP.
XCIII.
How pure at heart and sound in head,With what divine affections bold,Should be the man whose thought would holdAn hour's communion with the dead.
In vain shalt thou, or any, callThe spirits from their golden day,Except, like them, thou too canst say,My spirit is at peace with all.
They haunt the silence of the breast,Imaginations calm and fair,The memory like a cloudless air,The conscience as a sea at rest:
But when the heart is full of din,And doubt beside the portal waits,They can but listen at the gates,And hear the household jar within.
L.
Do we indeed desire the deadShould still be near us at our side?Is there no baseness we would hide?No inner vileness that we dread?
Shall he for whose applause I strove,I had such reverence for his blame,See with clear eye some hidden shame,And I be lessened in his love?
I wrong the grave with fears untrue:Shall love be blamed for want of faith?There must be wisdom with great Death:The dead shall look me through and through.
Be near us when we climb or fall:Ye watch, like God, the rolling hoursWith larger other eyes than ours,To make allowance for us all.
DEATH IN LIFE'S PRIME.
LXXII.
So many worlds, so much to do,So little done, such things to be,How know I what had need of thee?For thou wert strong as thou wert true.
The fame is quenched that I foresaw,The head hath missed an earthly wreath:I curse not nature, no, nor death;For nothing is that errs from law.
We pass; the path that each man trodIs dim, or will be dim, with weeds:What fame is left for human deedsIn endless age? It rests with God.
O hollow wraith of dying fame,Fade wholly, while the soul exults,And self-enfolds the large resultsOf force that would have forged a name.
THE POET'S TRIBUTE.
LXXVI.
What hope is here for modern rhymeTo him who turns a musing eyeOn songs, and deeds, and lives, that lieForeshortened in the tract of time?
These mortal lullabies of painMay bind a book, may line a box,May serve to curl a maiden's locks:Or when a thousand moons shall wane
A man upon a stall may find,And, passing, turn the page that tells.A grief, then changed to something else,Sung by a long-forgotten mind.
But what of that? My darkened waysShall ring with music all the same;To breathe my loss is more than fame,To utter love more sweet than praise.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
APRÈS.Down, down, Ellen, my little one,Climbing so tenderly up to my knee;Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me,Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me?Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one,Warbling so fairily close to my ear;Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me,This that I made for your mother to hear?Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one,Wailing so wearily under the stars;Why should I think of her tears, that might light to meLove that had made life, and sorrow that mars?Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one!Is she not like her whenever she stirs?Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me,Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers?Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one.Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave,Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,—Something to cling to and something to crave.Love, love, Ellen, my little one!Love indestructible, love undefiled,Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me,Oft as I look on the face of her child.ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.
APRÈS.
Down, down, Ellen, my little one,Climbing so tenderly up to my knee;Why should you add to the thoughts that are taunting me,Dreams of your mother's arms clinging to me?
Cease, cease, Ellen, my little one,Warbling so fairily close to my ear;Why should you choose, of all songs that are haunting me,This that I made for your mother to hear?
Hush, hush, Ellen, my little one,Wailing so wearily under the stars;Why should I think of her tears, that might light to meLove that had made life, and sorrow that mars?
Sleep, sleep, Ellen, my little one!Is she not like her whenever she stirs?Has she not eyes that will soon be as bright to me,Lips that will some day be honeyed like hers?
Yes, yes, Ellen, my little one.Though her white bosom is stilled in the grave,Something more white than her bosom is spared to me,—Something to cling to and something to crave.
Love, love, Ellen, my little one!Love indestructible, love undefiled,Love through all deeps of her spirit lies bared to me,Oft as I look on the face of her child.
ARTHUR JOSEPH MUNBY.
THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-two.To make my lady's obsequiesMy love a minster wrought,And, in the chantry, service thereWas sung by doleful thought;The tapers were of burning sighs,That light and odor gave:And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,Enluminèd her grave;And round about, in quaintest guise,Was carved: "Within this tomb there liesThe fairest thing in mortal eyes."Above her lieth spread a tombOf gold and sapphires blue:The gold doth show her blessedness,The sapphires mark her true;For blessedness and truth in herWere livelily portrayed,When gracious God with both his handsHer goodly substance made.He framed her in such wondrous wise,She was, to speak without disguise,The fairest thing in mortal eyes.No more, no more! my heart doth faintWhen I the life recallOf her who lived so free from taint,So virtuous deemed by all,—That in herself was so completeI think that she was ta'enBy God to deck his paradise,And with his saints to reign,Whom while on earth each one did prizeThe fairest thing in mortal eyes.But naught our tears avail, or cries;All soon or late in death shall sleep;Nor living wight long time may keepThe fairest thing in mortal eyes.From the French of CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.
THE FAIREST THING IN MORTAL EYES.
Addressed to his deceased wife, who died in childbed at the age of twenty-two.
To make my lady's obsequiesMy love a minster wrought,And, in the chantry, service thereWas sung by doleful thought;The tapers were of burning sighs,That light and odor gave:And sorrows, painted o'er with tears,Enluminèd her grave;And round about, in quaintest guise,Was carved: "Within this tomb there liesThe fairest thing in mortal eyes."
Above her lieth spread a tombOf gold and sapphires blue:The gold doth show her blessedness,The sapphires mark her true;For blessedness and truth in herWere livelily portrayed,When gracious God with both his handsHer goodly substance made.He framed her in such wondrous wise,She was, to speak without disguise,The fairest thing in mortal eyes.
No more, no more! my heart doth faintWhen I the life recallOf her who lived so free from taint,So virtuous deemed by all,—That in herself was so completeI think that she was ta'enBy God to deck his paradise,And with his saints to reign,Whom while on earth each one did prizeThe fairest thing in mortal eyes.
But naught our tears avail, or cries;All soon or late in death shall sleep;Nor living wight long time may keepThe fairest thing in mortal eyes.
From the French of CHARLES, DUKE OF ORLEANS.Translation of HENRY FRANCIS CARY.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.O well for the fisherman's boyThat he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor ladThat he sings in his boat on the bay!And the stately ships go on,To the haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
BREAK, BREAK, BREAK.
Break, break, break,On thy cold gray stones, O sea!And I would that my tongue could utterThe thoughts that arise in me.
O well for the fisherman's boyThat he shouts with his sister at play!O well for the sailor ladThat he sings in his boat on the bay!
And the stately ships go on,To the haven under the hill;But O for the touch of a vanished hand,And the sound of a voice that is still!
Break, break, break,At the foot of thy crags, O sea!But the tender grace of a day that is deadWill never come back to me.
ALFRED, LORD TENNYSON.
LAVENDER.How prone we are to hide and hoardEach little treasure time has stored,To tell of happy hours!We lay aside with tender careA tattered book, a lock of hair,A bunch of faded flowers.When death has led with silent handOur darlings to the "Silent Land,"Awhile we sit bereft;But time goes on; anon we rise,Our dead are buried from our eyes,We gather what is left.The books they loved, the songs they sang,The little flute whose music rangSo cheerily of old;The pictures we had watched them paint,The last plucked flower, with odor faint,That fell from fingers cold.We smooth and fold with reverent careThe robes they living used to wear;And painful pulses stirAs o'er the relics of our dead,With bitter rain of tears, we spreadPale purple lavender.And when we come in after years,With only tender April tearsOn cheeks once white with care,To look on treasures put awayDespairing on that far-off day,A subtile scent is there.Dew-wet and fresh we gather them,These fragrant flowers; now every stemIs bare of all its bloom:Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them hereTo lend our relics, sacred, dear,Their beautiful perfume.The scent abides on book and lute,On curl and flower, and with its muteBut eloquent appealIt wins from us a deeper sobFor our lost dead, a sharper throbThan we are wont to feel.It whispers of the "long ago;"Its love, its loss, its aching woe,And buried sorrows stir;And tears like those we shed of oldRoll down our cheeks as we beholdOur faded lavender.ANONYMOUS.
LAVENDER.
How prone we are to hide and hoardEach little treasure time has stored,To tell of happy hours!We lay aside with tender careA tattered book, a lock of hair,A bunch of faded flowers.
When death has led with silent handOur darlings to the "Silent Land,"Awhile we sit bereft;But time goes on; anon we rise,Our dead are buried from our eyes,We gather what is left.
The books they loved, the songs they sang,The little flute whose music rangSo cheerily of old;The pictures we had watched them paint,The last plucked flower, with odor faint,That fell from fingers cold.
We smooth and fold with reverent careThe robes they living used to wear;And painful pulses stirAs o'er the relics of our dead,With bitter rain of tears, we spreadPale purple lavender.
And when we come in after years,With only tender April tearsOn cheeks once white with care,To look on treasures put awayDespairing on that far-off day,A subtile scent is there.
Dew-wet and fresh we gather them,These fragrant flowers; now every stemIs bare of all its bloom:Tear-wet and sweet we strewed them hereTo lend our relics, sacred, dear,Their beautiful perfume.
The scent abides on book and lute,On curl and flower, and with its muteBut eloquent appealIt wins from us a deeper sobFor our lost dead, a sharper throbThan we are wont to feel.
It whispers of the "long ago;"Its love, its loss, its aching woe,And buried sorrows stir;And tears like those we shed of oldRoll down our cheeks as we beholdOur faded lavender.
ANONYMOUS.
WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE.What of the darkness? Is it very fair?Are there great calms? and find we silence there?Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glowWith some strange peace our faces never know,With some strange faith our faces never dare,—Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there?Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap?Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?Day shows us not such comfort anywhere—Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?Out of the Day's deceiving light we call—Day that shows man so great, and God so small,That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass—O is the Darkness too a lying glass!Or undistracted, do you find truth there?What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
WHAT OF THE DARKNESS?
TO THE HAPPY DEAD PEOPLE.
What of the darkness? Is it very fair?Are there great calms? and find we silence there?Like soft-shut lilies, all your faces glowWith some strange peace our faces never know,With some strange faith our faces never dare,—Dwells it in Darkness? Do you find it there?
Is it a Bosom where tired heads may lie?Is it a Mouth to kiss our weeping dry?Is it a Hand to still the pulse's leap?Is it a Voice that holds the runes of sleep?Day shows us not such comfort anywhere—Dwells it in Darkness? Do ye find it there?
Out of the Day's deceiving light we call—Day that shows man so great, and God so small,That hides the stars, and magnifies the grass—O is the Darkness too a lying glass!Or undistracted, do you find truth there?What of the Darkness? Is it very fair?
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
VAN ELSEN.God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul;He spake by sickness first and made him whole;Van Elsen heard him not,Or soon forgot.God spake to him by wealth, the world outpouredIts treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;Van Elsen's heart grew fatAnd proud thereat.God spake the third time when the great world smiled,And in the sunshine slew his little child;Van Elsen like a treeFell hopelessly.Then in the darkness came a voice which said,"As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,As I have need of thee,Thou needest me."That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,Praised Him with fervent breathWho conquered death.FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.
VAN ELSEN.
God spake three times and saved Van Elsen's soul;He spake by sickness first and made him whole;Van Elsen heard him not,Or soon forgot.
God spake to him by wealth, the world outpouredIts treasures at his feet, and called him Lord;Van Elsen's heart grew fatAnd proud thereat.
God spake the third time when the great world smiled,And in the sunshine slew his little child;Van Elsen like a treeFell hopelessly.
Then in the darkness came a voice which said,"As thy heart bleedeth, so my heart hath bled,As I have need of thee,Thou needest me."
That night Van Elsen kissed the baby feet,And, kneeling by the narrow winding sheet,Praised Him with fervent breathWho conquered death.
FREDERICK GEORGE SCOTT.
WALT WHITMANWALT WHITMANAfter a life-photograph by Rockwood, New York.
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED.[THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.]1.When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed,And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,And thought of him I love.2.O powerful western fallen star!O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!O great star disappeared—O the black murk that hides the star!O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!3.In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings,Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,With every leaf a miracle;—and from this bush in the door-yard,With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,A sprig with its flower I break.4.In the swamp in secluded recesses,A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.Solitary the thrush,The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,Sings by himself a song.—Song of the bleeding throat,Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know,If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldst surely die).5.Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the gray débris,Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields up-risen,Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,Night and day journeys a coffin.6.Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black,With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing,With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin,The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang,Here, coffin that slowly passes,I give you my sprig of lilac.7.(Nor for you, for one alone,—Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring;For, fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death.All over bouquets of roses,O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)8.O western orb sailing the heaven,Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walked,As I walked in silence the transparent shadowy night,As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,As you drooped from the sky low down as if to my side (while the other stars all looked on),As we wandered together the solemn night (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep),As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,As I watched where you passed and was lost in the netherward black of the night,As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you, sad orb.Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.9.Sing on there in the swamp,O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes, I hear your call,I hear, I come presently, I understand you;But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detained me,The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.10.O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?Sea-winds blown from east and west,Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,These and with these and the breath of my chant,I'll perfume the grave of him I love.11.O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,To adorn the burial-house of him I love?Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there,With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows,And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.12.Lo, body and soul—this land,My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships,The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri,And ever the far-spreading prairies covered with grass and corn.Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,The gentle soft-born measureless light,The miracle spreading, bathing all, the fulfilled noon,The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.13.Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird!Sing from the swamps, the recesses; pour your chant from the bushes,Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song,Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.O liquid and free and tender!O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!You only I hear—yet the star holds me (but will soon depart),Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.14.Now while I sat in the day and looked forth,In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops,In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests.In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturbed winds and the storms),Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sailed,And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages,And the streets how their throbbings throbbed, and the cities pent—lo, then and there,Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,Appeared the cloud, appeared the long black trail,And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.And the singer so shy to the rest received me,The gray-brown bird I know received us comrades three,And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.From deep secluded recesses,From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,Came the carol of the bird.And the charm of the carol rapt me,As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.Come, lovely and soothing death.Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,In the, day, in the night, to all, to each,Sooner or later, delicate death.Praised be the fathomless universe,For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet,Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.Approach, strong deliveress!When it is so, when thou, hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.From me to thee glad serenades,Dances for thee, I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee;And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night—The night in silence under many a star,The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death,And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O death.15.To the tally of my soul,Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,With pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night,Loud in the pines and cedars dim.Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,And I with my comrades there in the night.While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,As to long panoramas of visions.And I saw askant the armies,I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles I saw them,And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody.And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence),And the staffs all splintered and broken.I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them;I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,But I saw they were not as was thought,They themselves were fully at rest, they suffered not:The living remained and suffered, the mother suffered,And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffered,And the armies that remained suffered.16.Passing the visions, passing the night,Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.I cease from my song for thee,From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,The song, the wondrous chant of the gray brown bird,And the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul,With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe.With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well.For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake,Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.WALT WHITMAN.
WHEN LILACS LAST IN THE DOOR-YARD BLOOMED.
[THE DEATH OF LINCOLN.]
1.
When lilacs last in the door-yard bloomed,And the great star early drooped in the western sky in the night,I mourned and yet shall mourn with ever-returning spring.
Ever-returning spring, trinity sure to me you bring,Lilacs blooming perennial, and drooping star in the west,And thought of him I love.
2.
O powerful western fallen star!O shades of night—O moody, tearful night!O great star disappeared—O the black murk that hides the star!O cruel hands that hold me powerless—O helpless soul of me!O harsh surrounding cloud that will not free my soul!
3.
In the door-yard fronting an old farm-house, near the whitewashed palings,Stands the lilac-bush tall-growing with heart-shaped leaves of rich green,With many a pointed blossom rising delicate, with the perfume strong I love,With every leaf a miracle;—and from this bush in the door-yard,With delicate-colored blossoms and heart-shaped leaves of rich green,A sprig with its flower I break.
4.
In the swamp in secluded recesses,A shy and hidden bird is warbling a song.
Solitary the thrush,The hermit withdrawn to himself, avoiding the settlements,Sings by himself a song.—
Song of the bleeding throat,Death's outlet song of life (for well, dear brother, I know,If thou wast not granted to sing thou wouldst surely die).
5.
Over the breast of the spring, the land, amid cities,Amid lanes and through old woods, where lately the violets peeped from the ground, spotting the gray débris,Amid the grass in the fields each side of the lanes, passing the endless grass,Passing the yellow-speared wheat, every grain from its shroud in the dark-brown fields up-risen,Passing the apple-tree blows of white and pink in the orchards,Carrying a corpse to where it shall rest in the grave,Night and day journeys a coffin.
6.
Coffin that passes through lanes and streets,Through day and night with the great cloud darkening the land,With the pomp of the inlooped flags, with the cities draped in black,With the show of the States themselves as of crape-veiled women standing,With processions long and winding and the flambeaus of the night,With the countless torches lit, with the silent sea of faces and the unbared heads,With the waiting depot, the arriving coffin, and the sombre faces,With dirges through the night, with the thousand voices rising strong and solemn,With all the mournful voices of the dirges poured around the coffin,The dim-lit churches and the shuddering organs—where amid these you journey,With the tolling, tolling bells' perpetual clang,Here, coffin that slowly passes,I give you my sprig of lilac.
7.
(Nor for you, for one alone,—Blossoms and branches green to coffins all I bring;For, fresh as the morning, thus would I chant a song for you, O sane and sacred death.
All over bouquets of roses,O death, I cover you over with roses and early lilies,But mostly and now the lilac that blooms the first,Copious I break, I break the sprigs from the bushes,With loaded arms I come, pouring for you,For you and the coffins all of you, O death.)
8.
O western orb sailing the heaven,Now I know what you must have meant as a month since I walked,As I walked in silence the transparent shadowy night,As I saw you had something to tell as you bent to me night after night,As you drooped from the sky low down as if to my side (while the other stars all looked on),As we wandered together the solemn night (for something, I know not what, kept me from sleep),As the night advanced, and I saw on the rim of the west how full you were of woe,As I stood on the rising ground in the breeze in the cool transparent night,As I watched where you passed and was lost in the netherward black of the night,As my soul in its trouble dissatisfied sank, as where you, sad orb.Concluded, dropt in the night, and was gone.
9.
Sing on there in the swamp,O singer bashful and tender! I hear your notes, I hear your call,I hear, I come presently, I understand you;But a moment I linger, for the lustrous star has detained me,The star my departing comrade holds and detains me.
10.
O how shall I warble myself for the dead one there I loved?And how shall I deck my song for the large sweet soul that has gone?And what shall my perfume be for the grave of him I love?
Sea-winds blown from east and west,Blown from the Eastern sea and blown from the Western sea, till there on the prairies meeting,These and with these and the breath of my chant,I'll perfume the grave of him I love.
11.
O what shall I hang on the chamber walls?And what shall the pictures be that I hang on the walls,To adorn the burial-house of him I love?Pictures of growing spring and farms and homes,With the Fourth-month eve at sundown, and the gray smoke lucid and bright,With floods of the yellow gold of the gorgeous, indolent, sinking sun, burning, expanding the air,With the fresh sweet herbage under foot, and the pale green leaves of the trees prolific,In the distance the flowing glaze, the breast of the river, with a wind-dapple here and there,With ranging hills on the banks, with many a line against the sky, and shadows,And the city at hand with dwellings so dense, and stacks of chimneys,And all the scenes of life and the workshops, and the workmen homeward returning.
12.
Lo, body and soul—this land,My own Manhattan with spires, and the sparkling and hurrying tides, and the ships,The varied and ample land, the South and the North in the light, Ohio's shores and flashing Missouri,And ever the far-spreading prairies covered with grass and corn.Lo, the most excellent sun so calm and haughty,The violet and purple morn with just-felt breezes,The gentle soft-born measureless light,The miracle spreading, bathing all, the fulfilled noon,The coming eve delicious, the welcome night and the stars,Over my cities shining all, enveloping man and land.
13.
Sing on, sing on, you gray-brown bird!Sing from the swamps, the recesses; pour your chant from the bushes,Limitless out of the dusk, out of the cedars and pines.
Sing on, dearest brother, warble your reedy song,Loud human song, with voice of uttermost woe.
O liquid and free and tender!O wild and loose to my soul—O wondrous singer!You only I hear—yet the star holds me (but will soon depart),Yet the lilac with mastering odor holds me.
14.
Now while I sat in the day and looked forth,In the close of the day with its light and the fields of spring, and the farmers preparing their crops,In the large unconscious scenery of my land with its lakes and forests.In the heavenly aerial beauty (after the perturbed winds and the storms),Under the arching heavens of the afternoon swift passing, and the voices of children and women,The many-moving sea-tides, and I saw the ships how they sailed,And the summer approaching with richness, and the fields all busy with labor,And the infinite separate houses, how they all went on, each with its meals and minutia of daily usages,And the streets how their throbbings throbbed, and the cities pent—lo, then and there,Falling upon them all and among them all, enveloping me with the rest,Appeared the cloud, appeared the long black trail,And I knew death, its thought, and the sacred knowledge of death.
Then with the knowledge of death as walking one side of me,And the thought of death close-walking the other side of me,And I in the middle as with companions, and as holding the hands of companions,I fled forth to the hiding receiving night that talks not,Down to the shores of the water, the path by the swamp in the dimness,To the solemn shadowy cedars and ghostly pines so still.
And the singer so shy to the rest received me,The gray-brown bird I know received us comrades three,And he sang the carol of death, and a verse for him I love.
From deep secluded recesses,From the fragrant cedars and the ghostly pines so still,Came the carol of the bird.
And the charm of the carol rapt me,As I held as if by their hands my comrades in the night,And the voice of my spirit tallied the song of the bird.
Come, lovely and soothing death.Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,In the, day, in the night, to all, to each,Sooner or later, delicate death.Praised be the fathomless universe,For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet,Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.Approach, strong deliveress!When it is so, when thou, hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.From me to thee glad serenades,Dances for thee, I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee;And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night—The night in silence under many a star,The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death,And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O death.
Come, lovely and soothing death.Undulate round the world, serenely arriving, arriving,In the, day, in the night, to all, to each,Sooner or later, delicate death.
Praised be the fathomless universe,For life and joy, and for objects and knowledge curious,And for love, sweet love—but praise! praise! praise!For the sure-enwinding arms of cool-enfolding death.
Dark mother, always gliding near with soft feet,Have none chanted for thee a chant of fullest welcome?Then I chant it for thee, I glorify thee above all,I bring thee a song that when thou must indeed come, come unfalteringly.
Approach, strong deliveress!When it is so, when thou, hast taken them, I joyously sing the dead,Lost in the loving floating ocean of thee,Laved in the flood of thy bliss, O death.
From me to thee glad serenades,Dances for thee, I propose, saluting thee, adornments and feastings for thee;And the sights of the open landscape and the high-spread sky are fitting,And life and the fields, and the huge and thoughtful night—
The night in silence under many a star,The ocean shore and the husky whispering wave whose voice I know,And the soul turning to thee, O vast and well-veiled death,And the body gratefully nestling close to thee.
Over the tree-tops I float thee a song,Over the rising and sinking waves, over the myriad fields and the prairies wide,Over the dense-packed cities all and the teeming wharves and ways,I float this carol with joy, with joy to thee, O death.
15.
To the tally of my soul,Loud and strong kept up the gray-brown bird,With pure deliberate notes spreading, filling the night,
Loud in the pines and cedars dim.Clear in the freshness moist and the swamp-perfume,And I with my comrades there in the night.
While my sight that was bound in my eyes unclosed,As to long panoramas of visions.
And I saw askant the armies,I saw as in noiseless dreams hundreds of battle-flags,Borne through the smoke of the battles and pierced with missiles I saw them,And carried hither and yon through the smoke, and torn and bloody.And at last but a few shreds left on the staffs (and all in silence),And the staffs all splintered and broken.
I saw battle-corpses, myriads of them,And the white skeletons of young men, I saw them;I saw the debris and debris of all the slain soldiers of the war,But I saw they were not as was thought,They themselves were fully at rest, they suffered not:The living remained and suffered, the mother suffered,And the wife and the child and the musing comrade suffered,And the armies that remained suffered.
16.
Passing the visions, passing the night,Passing, unloosing the hold of my comrades' hands,Passing the song of the hermit bird and the tallying song of my soul,Victorious song, death's outlet song, yet varying ever-altering song,As low and wailing, yet clear the notes, rising and falling, flooding the night,Sadly sinking and fainting, as warning and warning, and yet again bursting with joy,Covering the earth and filling the spread of the heaven,As that powerful psalm in the night I heard from recesses,Passing, I leave thee lilac with heart-shaped leaves,I leave thee there in the door-yard, blooming, returning with spring.
I cease from my song for thee,From my gaze on thee in the west, fronting the west, communing with thee,O comrade lustrous, with silver face in the night.Yet each to keep and all, retrievements out of the night,The song, the wondrous chant of the gray brown bird,And the tallying chant, the echo aroused in my soul,With the lustrous and drooping star with the countenance full of woe.With the holders holding my hand nearing the call of the bird,Comrades mine and I in the midst, and their memory ever to keep, for the dead I loved so well.For the sweetest, wisest soul of all my days and lands—and this for his dear sake,Lilac and star and bird twined with the chant of my soul,There in the fragrant pines and the cedars dusk and dim.
WALT WHITMAN.
IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.If I should die to-night,My friends would look upon my quiet faceBefore they laid it in its resting-place,And deem that death had left it almost fair;And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair.Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,And fold my hands with lingering caress—Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!If I should die to-night,My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;Errands on which the willing feet had sped;The memory of my selfishness and pride,My hasty words, would all be put aside,And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.If I should die to-night,Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,Recalling other days remorsefully;The eyes that chill me with averted glanceWould look upon me as of yore, perchance,And soften, in the old familiar way;For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.Oh, friends, I pray to-night,Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow—The way is lonely; let me feel them now.Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!When dreamless rest is mine I shall not needThe tenderness for which I long to-night.BELLE E. SMITH.
IF I SHOULD DIE TO-NIGHT.
If I should die to-night,My friends would look upon my quiet faceBefore they laid it in its resting-place,And deem that death had left it almost fair;And, laying snow-white flowers against my hair.Would smooth it down with tearful tenderness,And fold my hands with lingering caress—Poor hands, so empty and so cold to-night!
If I should die to-night,My friends would call to mind, with loving thought,Some kindly deed the icy hands had wrought;Some gentle word the frozen lips had said;Errands on which the willing feet had sped;The memory of my selfishness and pride,My hasty words, would all be put aside,And so I should be loved and mourned to-night.
If I should die to-night,Even hearts estranged would turn once more to me,Recalling other days remorsefully;The eyes that chill me with averted glanceWould look upon me as of yore, perchance,And soften, in the old familiar way;For who could war with dumb, unconscious clay?So I might rest, forgiven of all, to-night.
Oh, friends, I pray to-night,Keep not your kisses for my dead, cold brow—The way is lonely; let me feel them now.Think gently of me; I am travel-worn;My faltering feet are pierced with many a thorn.Forgive, oh, hearts estranged, forgive, I plead!When dreamless rest is mine I shall not needThe tenderness for which I long to-night.
BELLE E. SMITH.
AWAKENING.Down to the borders of the silent landHe goes with halting feet;He dares not trust; he cannot understandThe blessedness completeThat waits for God's beloved at his right hand.He dreads to see God's face, for though the pureBeholding him are blest,Yet in his sight no evil can endure;And still with fear oppressedHe looks within and cries, "Who can be sure?"The world beyond is strange; the golden streets,The palaces so fair,The seraphs singing in the shining seats,The glory everywhere,—And to his soul he solemnly repeatsThe visions of the Book. "Alas!" he cries,"That world is all too grand;Among those splendors and those majestiesI would not dare to stand;For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!"Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stoodThrough service and through pain;The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good;Sure, dying must be gainTo one who living hath done what he could.The light is fading in the tired eyes,The weary race is run;Not as the victor that doth seize the prize.But as the fainting one,He nears the verge of the eternities.And now the end has come, and now he seesThe happy, happy shore;O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are theseThe things thou fearedst before—The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace?This land is home; no stranger art thou here;Sweet and familiar wordsFrom voices silent long salute thine ear;And winds and songs of birds,And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near.The seraphs—they are men of kindly mien;The gems and robes—but signsOf minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean;The glory—such as shinesWherever faith or hope or love is seen.And he, O doubting child! the Lord of graceWhom thou didst fear to see—He knows thy sin—but look upon his face!Doth it not shine on theeWith a great light of love that fills the place?O happy soul, be thankful now and rest!Heaven is a goodly land;And God is love; and those he loves are blest;—Now thou dost understand;The least thou hast is better than the bestThat thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyesThe new life opens fair;Before thy feet the Blessed journey liesThrough homelands everywhere;And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise.WASHINGTON GLADDEN.
AWAKENING.
Down to the borders of the silent landHe goes with halting feet;He dares not trust; he cannot understandThe blessedness completeThat waits for God's beloved at his right hand.
He dreads to see God's face, for though the pureBeholding him are blest,Yet in his sight no evil can endure;And still with fear oppressedHe looks within and cries, "Who can be sure?"
The world beyond is strange; the golden streets,The palaces so fair,The seraphs singing in the shining seats,The glory everywhere,—And to his soul he solemnly repeats
The visions of the Book. "Alas!" he cries,"That world is all too grand;Among those splendors and those majestiesI would not dare to stand;For me a lowlier heaven would well suffice!"
Yet, faithful in his lot this saint has stoodThrough service and through pain;The Lord Christ he has followed, doing good;Sure, dying must be gainTo one who living hath done what he could.
The light is fading in the tired eyes,The weary race is run;Not as the victor that doth seize the prize.But as the fainting one,He nears the verge of the eternities.
And now the end has come, and now he seesThe happy, happy shore;O fearful, and faint, distrustful soul, are theseThe things thou fearedst before—The awful majesties that spoiled thy peace?
This land is home; no stranger art thou here;Sweet and familiar wordsFrom voices silent long salute thine ear;And winds and songs of birds,And bees and blooms and sweet perfumes are near.
The seraphs—they are men of kindly mien;The gems and robes—but signsOf minds all radiant and of hearts washed clean;The glory—such as shinesWherever faith or hope or love is seen.
And he, O doubting child! the Lord of graceWhom thou didst fear to see—He knows thy sin—but look upon his face!Doth it not shine on theeWith a great light of love that fills the place?
O happy soul, be thankful now and rest!Heaven is a goodly land;And God is love; and those he loves are blest;—Now thou dost understand;The least thou hast is better than the best
That thou didst hope for; now upon thine eyesThe new life opens fair;Before thy feet the Blessed journey liesThrough homelands everywhere;And heaven to thee is all a sweet surprise.
WASHINGTON GLADDEN.