MY CHILD.I cannot make him dead!His fair sunshiny headIs ever bounding round my study chair;Yet when my eyes, now dimWith tears, I turn to him,The vision vanishes,—he is not there!I walk my parlor floor,And, through the open door,I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;I'm stepping toward the hallTo give the boy a call;And then bethink me that—he is not there!I thread the crowded street;A satchelled lad I meet,With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;And, as he's running by,Follow him with my eye,Scarcely believing that—he is not there!I know his face is hidUnder the coffin lid;Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;My hand that marble felt;O'er it in prayer I knelt;Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!I cannot make him dead!When passing by the bed,So long watched over with parental care,My spirit and my eyeSeek him inquiringly,Before the thought comes, that—he is not there!When, at the cool gray breakOf day, from sleep I wake.With my first breathing of the morning airMy soul goes up, with joy,To Him who gave my boy;Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!When at the day's calm close,Before we seek repose,I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;Whate'er I may be saying,I am in spirit prayingFor our boy's spirit, though—he is not there!Not there!—Where, then, is he?The form I used to seeWas but the raiment that he used to wear.The grave, that now doth pressUpon that cast-off dress,Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there!He lives!—In all the pastHe lives; nor, to the last,Of seeing him again will I despair;In dreams I see him now;And, on his angel brow,I see it written, "Thou shalt see methere!"Yes, we all live to God!Father, thy chastening rodSo help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,That, in the spirit land,Meeting at thy right hand,'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there!JOHN PIERPONT.
MY CHILD.
I cannot make him dead!His fair sunshiny headIs ever bounding round my study chair;Yet when my eyes, now dimWith tears, I turn to him,The vision vanishes,—he is not there!
I walk my parlor floor,And, through the open door,I hear a footfall on the chamber stair;I'm stepping toward the hallTo give the boy a call;And then bethink me that—he is not there!
I thread the crowded street;A satchelled lad I meet,With the same beaming eyes and colored hair;And, as he's running by,Follow him with my eye,Scarcely believing that—he is not there!
I know his face is hidUnder the coffin lid;Closed are his eyes; cold is his forehead fair;My hand that marble felt;O'er it in prayer I knelt;Yet my heart whispers that—he is not there!
I cannot make him dead!When passing by the bed,So long watched over with parental care,My spirit and my eyeSeek him inquiringly,Before the thought comes, that—he is not there!
When, at the cool gray breakOf day, from sleep I wake.With my first breathing of the morning airMy soul goes up, with joy,To Him who gave my boy;Then comes the sad thought that—he is not there!
When at the day's calm close,Before we seek repose,I'm with his mother, offering up our prayer;Whate'er I may be saying,I am in spirit prayingFor our boy's spirit, though—he is not there!
Not there!—Where, then, is he?The form I used to seeWas but the raiment that he used to wear.The grave, that now doth pressUpon that cast-off dress,Is but his wardrobe locked—he is not there!
He lives!—In all the pastHe lives; nor, to the last,Of seeing him again will I despair;In dreams I see him now;And, on his angel brow,I see it written, "Thou shalt see methere!"
Yes, we all live to God!Father, thy chastening rodSo help us, thine afflicted ones, to bear,That, in the spirit land,Meeting at thy right hand,'Twill be our heaven to find that—he is there!
JOHN PIERPONT.
SONG.She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,Her tears are in the falling rain,She calls me in the wind's soft song,And with the flowers she comes again.Yon bird is but her messenger,The moon is but her silver car;Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,And every wistful waiting star.RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
SONG.
She's somewhere in the sunlight strong,Her tears are in the falling rain,She calls me in the wind's soft song,And with the flowers she comes again.
Yon bird is but her messenger,The moon is but her silver car;Yea! sun and moon are sent by her,And every wistful waiting star.
RICHARD LE GALLIENNE.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.There is a Reaper whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between."Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;"Have naught but the bearded grain?—Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,I will give them all back again."He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,He kissed their drooping leaves;It was for the Lord of ParadiseHe bound them in his sheaves."My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"The Reaper said, and smiled;"Dear tokens of the earth are they,Where he was once a child."They shall all bloom in fields of light,Transplanted by my care,And saints, upon their garments white,These sacred blossoms wear."And the mother gave, in tears and pain,The flowers she most did love;She knew she should find them all againIn the fields of light above.O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,The Reaper came that day;'Twas an angel visited the green earth,And took the flowers away.HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
THE REAPER AND THE FLOWERS.
There is a Reaper whose name is Death,And, with his sickle keen,He reaps the bearded grain at a breath,And the flowers that grow between.
"Shall I have naught that is fair?" saith he;"Have naught but the bearded grain?—Though the breath of these flowers is sweet to me,I will give them all back again."
He gazed at the flowers with tearful eyes,He kissed their drooping leaves;It was for the Lord of ParadiseHe bound them in his sheaves.
"My Lord has need of these flowerets gay,"The Reaper said, and smiled;"Dear tokens of the earth are they,Where he was once a child.
"They shall all bloom in fields of light,Transplanted by my care,And saints, upon their garments white,These sacred blossoms wear."
And the mother gave, in tears and pain,The flowers she most did love;She knew she should find them all againIn the fields of light above.
O, not in cruelty, not in wrath,The Reaper came that day;'Twas an angel visited the green earth,And took the flowers away.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
"ONLY A YEAR."One year ago,—a ringing voice,A clear blue eye,And clustering curls of sunny hair,Too fair to die.Only a year,—no voice, no smile,No glance of eye,No clustering curls of golden hair,Fair but to die!One year ago,—what loves, what schemesFar into life!What joyous hopes, what high resolves,What generous strife!The silent picture on the wall,The burial-stone,Of all that beauty, life, and joy,Remain alone!One year,—one year,—one little year,And so much gone!And yet the even flow of lifeMoves calmly on.The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,Above that head;No sorrowing tint of leaf or spraySays he is dead.No pause or hush of merry birdsThat sing aboveTells us how coldly sleeps belowThe form we love.Where hast thou been this year, beloved?What hast thou seen,—What visions fair, what glorious life,Where hast thou been?The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!'Twixt us and thee;The mystic veil! when shall it fall,That we may see?Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,But present still,And waiting for the coming hourOf God's sweet will.Lord of the living and the dead,Our Saviour dear!We lay in silence at thy feetThis sad, sad year.HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
"ONLY A YEAR."
One year ago,—a ringing voice,A clear blue eye,And clustering curls of sunny hair,Too fair to die.
Only a year,—no voice, no smile,No glance of eye,No clustering curls of golden hair,Fair but to die!
One year ago,—what loves, what schemesFar into life!What joyous hopes, what high resolves,What generous strife!
The silent picture on the wall,The burial-stone,Of all that beauty, life, and joy,Remain alone!
One year,—one year,—one little year,And so much gone!And yet the even flow of lifeMoves calmly on.
The grave grows green, the flowers bloom fair,Above that head;No sorrowing tint of leaf or spraySays he is dead.
No pause or hush of merry birdsThat sing aboveTells us how coldly sleeps belowThe form we love.
Where hast thou been this year, beloved?What hast thou seen,—What visions fair, what glorious life,Where hast thou been?
The veil! the veil! so thin, so strong!'Twixt us and thee;The mystic veil! when shall it fall,That we may see?
Not dead, not sleeping, not even gone,But present still,And waiting for the coming hourOf God's sweet will.
Lord of the living and the dead,Our Saviour dear!We lay in silence at thy feetThis sad, sad year.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.Oh, deem not they are blest aloneWhose lives a peaceful tenor keep;The Power who pities man, has shownA blessing for the eyes that weep.The light of smiles shall fill againThe lids that overflow with tears;And weary hours of woe and painAre promises of happier years.There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night;And grief may bide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bierDost shed the bitter drops like rain,Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again.Nor let the good man's trust depart,Though life its common gifts deny,—Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,And spurned of men, he goes to die.For God hath marked each sorrowing dayAnd numbered every secret tear,And heaven's long age of bliss shall payFor all his children suffer here.WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
BLESSED ARE THEY THAT MOURN.
Oh, deem not they are blest aloneWhose lives a peaceful tenor keep;The Power who pities man, has shownA blessing for the eyes that weep.
The light of smiles shall fill againThe lids that overflow with tears;And weary hours of woe and painAre promises of happier years.
There is a day of sunny restFor every dark and troubled night;And grief may bide an evening guest,But joy shall come with early light.
And thou, who o'er thy friend's low bierDost shed the bitter drops like rain,Hope that a brighter, happier sphereWill give him to thy arms again.
Nor let the good man's trust depart,Though life its common gifts deny,—Though with a pierced and bleeding heart,And spurned of men, he goes to die.
For God hath marked each sorrowing dayAnd numbered every secret tear,And heaven's long age of bliss shall payFor all his children suffer here.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
DE PROFUNDIS.The face which, duly as the sun,Rose up for me with life begun,To mark all bright hours of the dayWith daily love, is dimmed away—And yet my days go on, go on.The tongue which, like a stream, could runSmooth music from the roughest stone,And every morning with "Good day"Make each day good, is hushed away—And yet my days go on, go on.The heart which, like a staff, was oneFor mine to lean and rest upon,The strongest on the longest day,With steadfast love is caught away—And yet my days go on, go on.The world goes whispering to its own,"This anguish pierces to the bone."And tender friends go sighing round,"What love can ever cure this wound?"My days go on, my days go on.The past rolls forward on the sunAnd makes all night. O dreams begun,Not to be ended! Ended bliss!And life, that will not end in this!My days go on, my days go on.Breath freezes on my lips to moan:As one alone, once not alone,I sit and knock at Nature's door,Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,Whose desolated days go on.I knock and cry—Undone, undone!Is there no help, no comfort—none?No gleaning in the wide wheat-plainsWhere others drive their loaded wains?My vacant days go on, go on.This Nature, though the snows be down,Thinks kindly of the bird of June.The little red hip on the treeIs ripe for such. What is for me,Whose days so winterly go on?No bird am I to sing in June,And dare not ask an equal boon.Good nests and berries red are Nature'sTo give away to better creatures—And yet my days go on, go on.Iask less kindness to be done—Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon(Too early worn and grimed) with sweetCool deathly touch to these tired feet,Till days go out which now go on.Only to lift the turf unmownFrom off the earth where it has grown,Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold,Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,Forgetting how the days go on."A Voice reproves me thereupon,More sweet than Nature's, when the droneOf bees is sweetest, and more deepThan when the rivers overleapThe shuddering pines, and thunder on.God's Voice, not Nature's—night and noonHe sits upon the great white throne,And listens for the creature's praise.What babble we of days and days?The Dayspring he, whose days go on!He reigns above, he reigns alone:Systems burn out and leave his throne:Fair mists of seraphs melt and fallAround him, changeless amid all—Ancient of days, whose days go on!He reigns below, he reigns alone—And having life in love forgoneBeneath the crown of sovran thorns,He reigns the jealous God. Who mournsOr rules withHim, while days go on?By anguish which made pale the sun,I hear him charge his saints that noneAmong the creatures anywhereBlaspheme against him with despair,However darkly days go on.Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown:No mortal grief deserves that crown.O supreme Love, chief misery,The sharp regalia are forThee,Whose days eternally go on!For us, ... whatever's undergone,Thou knowest, willest what is done.Grief may be joy misunderstood:Only the Good discerns the good.I trust Thee while my days go on.Whatever's lost, it first was won!We will not struggle nor impugn.Perhaps the cup was broken hereThat Heaven's new wine might show more clear.I praise Thee while my days go on.I praise Thee while my days go on;I love Thee while my days go on!Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,With emptied arms and treasure lost,I thank thee while my days go on!And, having in thy life-depth thrownBeing and suffering (which are one),As a child drops some pebble smallDown some deep well, and hears it fallSmiling—so I!Thy Days Go On!ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
DE PROFUNDIS.
The face which, duly as the sun,Rose up for me with life begun,To mark all bright hours of the dayWith daily love, is dimmed away—And yet my days go on, go on.
The tongue which, like a stream, could runSmooth music from the roughest stone,And every morning with "Good day"Make each day good, is hushed away—And yet my days go on, go on.
The heart which, like a staff, was oneFor mine to lean and rest upon,The strongest on the longest day,With steadfast love is caught away—And yet my days go on, go on.
The world goes whispering to its own,"This anguish pierces to the bone."And tender friends go sighing round,"What love can ever cure this wound?"My days go on, my days go on.
The past rolls forward on the sunAnd makes all night. O dreams begun,Not to be ended! Ended bliss!And life, that will not end in this!My days go on, my days go on.
Breath freezes on my lips to moan:As one alone, once not alone,I sit and knock at Nature's door,Heart-bare, heart-hungry, very poor,Whose desolated days go on.
I knock and cry—Undone, undone!Is there no help, no comfort—none?No gleaning in the wide wheat-plainsWhere others drive their loaded wains?My vacant days go on, go on.
This Nature, though the snows be down,Thinks kindly of the bird of June.The little red hip on the treeIs ripe for such. What is for me,Whose days so winterly go on?
No bird am I to sing in June,And dare not ask an equal boon.Good nests and berries red are Nature'sTo give away to better creatures—And yet my days go on, go on.
Iask less kindness to be done—Only to loose these pilgrim-shoon(Too early worn and grimed) with sweetCool deathly touch to these tired feet,Till days go out which now go on.
Only to lift the turf unmownFrom off the earth where it has grown,Some cubit-space, and say, "Behold,Creep in, poor Heart, beneath that fold,Forgetting how the days go on."
A Voice reproves me thereupon,More sweet than Nature's, when the droneOf bees is sweetest, and more deepThan when the rivers overleapThe shuddering pines, and thunder on.
God's Voice, not Nature's—night and noonHe sits upon the great white throne,And listens for the creature's praise.What babble we of days and days?The Dayspring he, whose days go on!
He reigns above, he reigns alone:Systems burn out and leave his throne:Fair mists of seraphs melt and fallAround him, changeless amid all—Ancient of days, whose days go on!
He reigns below, he reigns alone—And having life in love forgoneBeneath the crown of sovran thorns,He reigns the jealous God. Who mournsOr rules withHim, while days go on?
By anguish which made pale the sun,I hear him charge his saints that noneAmong the creatures anywhereBlaspheme against him with despair,However darkly days go on.
Take from my head the thorn-wreath brown:No mortal grief deserves that crown.O supreme Love, chief misery,The sharp regalia are forThee,Whose days eternally go on!
For us, ... whatever's undergone,Thou knowest, willest what is done.Grief may be joy misunderstood:Only the Good discerns the good.I trust Thee while my days go on.
Whatever's lost, it first was won!We will not struggle nor impugn.Perhaps the cup was broken hereThat Heaven's new wine might show more clear.I praise Thee while my days go on.
I praise Thee while my days go on;I love Thee while my days go on!Through dark and dearth, through fire and frost,With emptied arms and treasure lost,I thank thee while my days go on!
And, having in thy life-depth thrownBeing and suffering (which are one),As a child drops some pebble smallDown some deep well, and hears it fallSmiling—so I!Thy Days Go On!
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
BLESSED ARE THEY.To us across the ages borne,Comes the deep word the Master said:"Blessèd are they that mourn;They shall be comforted!"Strange mystery! It is better thenTo weep and yearn and vainly call,Till peace is won from pain,Than not to grieve at all!Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet,Life does not thrill to joy alone.The harp is incompleteThat has no deeper tone.Unclouded sunshine overmuchFalls vainly on the barren plain;But fruitful is the touchOf sunshine after rain!Who only scans the heavens by dayTheir story but half reads, and mars;Let him learn how to say,"The night is full of stars!"We seek to know Thee more and more,Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest,Since sorrow is the doorWhereby Thou enterest.Nor can our hearts so closely comeTo Thine in any other place,As where, with anguish dumb,We faint in Thine embrace.ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.
BLESSED ARE THEY.
To us across the ages borne,Comes the deep word the Master said:"Blessèd are they that mourn;They shall be comforted!"
Strange mystery! It is better thenTo weep and yearn and vainly call,Till peace is won from pain,Than not to grieve at all!
Yea, truly, though joy's note be sweet,Life does not thrill to joy alone.The harp is incompleteThat has no deeper tone.
Unclouded sunshine overmuchFalls vainly on the barren plain;But fruitful is the touchOf sunshine after rain!
Who only scans the heavens by dayTheir story but half reads, and mars;Let him learn how to say,"The night is full of stars!"
We seek to know Thee more and more,Dear Lord, and count our sorrows blest,Since sorrow is the doorWhereby Thou enterest.
Nor can our hearts so closely comeTo Thine in any other place,As where, with anguish dumb,We faint in Thine embrace.
ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.
LINESTO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860."Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."—John xx.15.In the fair gardens of celestial peaceWalketh a gardener in meekness clad;Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;And when he walks, each floweret to his willWith living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,In the mild summer radiance of his eye;No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.And all our pleasant haunts of earthly loveAre nurseries to those gardens of the air;And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,Watching the growing of his treasures there.We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;Forgetful of the high, mysterious rightHe holds to bear our cherished plants away.But when some sunny spot in those bright fieldsNeeds the fair presence of an added flower,Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above,Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,The angels hail an added flower of love.Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eyeBeyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.Thy garden rosebud bore within its breastThose mysteries of color, warm and bright,That the bleak climate of this lower sphereCould never waken into form and light.Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour,Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
LINES
TO THE MEMORY OF "ANNIE," WHO DIED AT MILAN, JUNE 6, 1860.
"Jesus saith unto her, Woman, why weepest thou? whom seekest thou? She, supposing him to be the gardener, saith unto him, Sir, if thou have borne him hence, tell me where thou hast laid him."—John xx.15.
In the fair gardens of celestial peaceWalketh a gardener in meekness clad;Fair are the flowers that wreathe his dewy locks,And his mysterious eyes are sweet and sad.
Fair are the silent foldings of his robes,Falling with saintly calmness to his feet;And when he walks, each floweret to his willWith living pulse of sweet accord doth beat.
Every green leaf thrills to its tender heart,In the mild summer radiance of his eye;No fear of storm, or cold, or bitter frost,Shadows the flowerets when their sun is nigh.
And all our pleasant haunts of earthly loveAre nurseries to those gardens of the air;And his far-darting eye, with starry beam,Watching the growing of his treasures there.
We call them ours, o'erwept with selfish tears,O'erwatched with restless longings night and day;Forgetful of the high, mysterious rightHe holds to bear our cherished plants away.
But when some sunny spot in those bright fieldsNeeds the fair presence of an added flower,Down sweeps a starry angel in the night:At morn the rose has vanished from our bower.
Where stood our tree, our flower, there is a grave!Blank, silent, vacant; but in worlds above,Like a new star outblossomed in the skies,The angels hail an added flower of love.
Dear friend, no more upon that lonely mound,Strewed with the red and yellow autumn leaf,Drop thou the tear, but raise the fainting eyeBeyond the autumn mists of earthly grief.
Thy garden rosebud bore within its breastThose mysteries of color, warm and bright,That the bleak climate of this lower sphereCould never waken into form and light.
Yes, the sweet Gardener hath borne her hence,Nor must thou ask to take her thence away;Thou shalt behold her, in some coming hour,Full blossomed in his fields of cloudless day.
HARRIET BEECHER STOWE.
DEATH IN YOUTH.FROM "FESTUS."For to die young is youth's divinest gift;To pass from one world fresh into another,Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret,And feel the immortal impulse from withinWhich makes the coming life cry always, On!And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy.There is a fire-fly in the south, but shinesWhen on the wing. So is't with mind. When onceWe rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul,As unto the earth for ever. On it goes,A rejoicing native of the infinite,As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven.PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.
DEATH IN YOUTH.
FROM "FESTUS."
For to die young is youth's divinest gift;To pass from one world fresh into another,Ere change hath lost the charm of soft regret,And feel the immortal impulse from withinWhich makes the coming life cry always, On!And follow it while strong, is heaven's last mercy.There is a fire-fly in the south, but shinesWhen on the wing. So is't with mind. When onceWe rest, we darken. On! saith God to the soul,As unto the earth for ever. On it goes,A rejoicing native of the infinite,As is a bird, of air; an orb, of heaven.
PHILIP JAMES BAILEY.
IN MEMORIAM F.A.S.Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O rememberHow of human days he lived the better part.April came to bloom and never dim DecemberBreathed its killing chills upon the head or heart.Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a beingTrod the flowery April blithely for a while,Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing,Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile.Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished,You alone have crossed the melancholy stream,Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminishedUndecaying gladness, undeparted dream.All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason,Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name.Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing seasonAnd ere the day of sorrow departed as he came.ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.Davos, 1881.
IN MEMORIAM F.A.S.
Yet, O stricken heart, remember, O rememberHow of human days he lived the better part.April came to bloom and never dim DecemberBreathed its killing chills upon the head or heart.
Doomed to know not winter, only spring, a beingTrod the flowery April blithely for a while,Took his fill of music, joy of thought and seeing,Came and stayed and went, nor ever ceased to smile.
Came and stayed and went, and now when all is finished,You alone have crossed the melancholy stream,Yours the pang, but his, O his, the undiminishedUndecaying gladness, undeparted dream.
All that life contains of torture, toil, and treason,Shame, dishonor, death, to him were but a name.Here, a boy, he dwelt through all the singing seasonAnd ere the day of sorrow departed as he came.
ROBERT LOUIS STEVENSON.
Davos, 1881.
TEARS.Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer notMore grief than ye can weep for. That is well—That is light grieving! lighter, none befell,Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,The mother singing; at her marriage bellThe bride weeps; and before the oracleOf high-faned hills, the poet has forgotSuch moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place,And touch but tombs,—look up! Those tears will runSoon in long rivers down the lifted face,And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
TEARS.
Thank God, bless God, all ye who suffer notMore grief than ye can weep for. That is well—That is light grieving! lighter, none befell,Since Adam forfeited the primal lot.Tears! what are tears? The babe weeps in its cot,The mother singing; at her marriage bellThe bride weeps; and before the oracleOf high-faned hills, the poet has forgotSuch moisture on his cheeks. Thank God for grace,Ye who weep only! If, as some have done,Ye grope tear-blinded in a desert place,And touch but tombs,—look up! Those tears will runSoon in long rivers down the lifted face,And leave the vision clear for stars and sun.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
RESIGNATION.There is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,But has one vacant chair!The air is full of farewells to the dying,And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.There is no death! What seems so is transition:This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives whom we call dead.Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,May reach her where she lives.Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child:But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.And though, at times, impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
RESIGNATION.
There is no flock, however watched and tended,But one dead lamb is there!There is no fireside, howsoe'er defended,But has one vacant chair!
The air is full of farewells to the dying,And mournings for the dead;The heart of Rachel, for her children crying,Will not be comforted!
Let us be patient! These severe afflictionsNot from the ground arise,But oftentimes celestial benedictionsAssume this dark disguise.
We see but dimly through the mists and vapors;Amid these earthly dampsWhat seem to us but sad, funereal tapersMay be heaven's distant lamps.
There is no death! What seems so is transition:This life of mortal breathIs but a suburb of the life elysian,Whose portal we call Death.
She is not dead,—the child of our affection,—But gone unto that schoolWhere she no longer needs our poor protection,And Christ himself doth rule.
In that great cloister's stillness and seclusion,By guardian angels led,Safe from temptation, safe from sin's pollution,She lives whom we call dead.
Day after day we think what she is doingIn those bright realms of air;Year after year, her tender steps pursuing,Behold her grown more fair.
Thus do we walk with her, and keep unbrokenThe bond which nature gives,Thinking that our remembrance, though unspoken,May reach her where she lives.
Not as a child shall we again behold her;For when with raptures wildIn our embraces we again enfold her,She will not be a child:
But a fair maiden, in her Father's mansion,Clothed with celestial grace;And beautiful with all the soul's expansionShall we behold her face.
And though, at times, impetuous with emotionAnd anguish long suppressed,The swelling heart heaves moaning like the ocean,That cannot be at rest,—
We will be patient, and assuage the feelingWe may not wholly stay;By silence sanctifying, not concealing,The grief that must have way.
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR.Beside the dead I knelt for prayer,And felt a presence as I prayed.Lo! it was Jesus standing there.He smiled: "Be not afraid!""Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know;Restore again to life," I said,"This one who died an hour ago."He smiled: "She is not dead!""Asleep then, as thyself did say;Yet thou canst lift the lids that keepHer prisoned eyes from ours away!"He smiled: "She doth not sleep!""Nay then, tho' haply she do wake,And look upon some fairer dawn,Restore her to our hearts that ache!"He smiled: "She is not gone!""Alas! too well we know our loss,Nor hope again our joy to touch,Until the stream of death we cross."He smiled: "There is no such!""Yet our beloved seem so far,The while we yearn to feel them near,Albeit with Thee we trust they are."He smiled: "And I am here!""Dear Lord, how shall we know that theyStill walk unseen with us and Thee,Nor sleep, nor wander far away?"He smiled: "Abide in Me."ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.
CHRISTUS CONSOLATOR.
Beside the dead I knelt for prayer,And felt a presence as I prayed.Lo! it was Jesus standing there.He smiled: "Be not afraid!"
"Lord, Thou hast conquered death we know;Restore again to life," I said,"This one who died an hour ago."He smiled: "She is not dead!"
"Asleep then, as thyself did say;Yet thou canst lift the lids that keepHer prisoned eyes from ours away!"He smiled: "She doth not sleep!"
"Nay then, tho' haply she do wake,And look upon some fairer dawn,Restore her to our hearts that ache!"He smiled: "She is not gone!"
"Alas! too well we know our loss,Nor hope again our joy to touch,Until the stream of death we cross."He smiled: "There is no such!"
"Yet our beloved seem so far,The while we yearn to feel them near,Albeit with Thee we trust they are."He smiled: "And I am here!"
"Dear Lord, how shall we know that theyStill walk unseen with us and Thee,Nor sleep, nor wander far away?"He smiled: "Abide in Me."
ROSSITER WORTHINGTON RAYMOND.
COMFORT.Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweetFrom out the hallelujahs, sweet and low,Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee soWho art not missed by any that entreat.Speak to me as Mary at thy feet—And if no precious gums my hands bestow,Let my tears drop like amber, while I goIn reach of thy divinest voice completeIn humanest affection—thus in sooth,To lose the sense of losing! As a childWhose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore,Is sung to instead by mother's mouth;Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,He sleeps the faster that he wept before.ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
COMFORT.
Speak low to me, my Saviour, low and sweetFrom out the hallelujahs, sweet and low,Lest I should fear and fall, and miss thee soWho art not missed by any that entreat.Speak to me as Mary at thy feet—And if no precious gums my hands bestow,Let my tears drop like amber, while I goIn reach of thy divinest voice completeIn humanest affection—thus in sooth,To lose the sense of losing! As a childWhose song-bird seeks the woods forevermore,Is sung to instead by mother's mouth;Till, sinking on her breast, love-reconciled,He sleeps the faster that he wept before.
ELIZABETH BARRETT BROWNING.
THE SECRET OF DEATH."She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;Over her eyes that gazed too muchThey drew the lids with a gentle touch;With a tender touch they closed up wellThe sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;About her brows and beautiful faceThey tied her veil and her marriage-lace,And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes—Which were the whitest no eye could choose!And over her bosom they crossed her hands."Come away!" they said; "God understands!"And there was silence, and nothing thereBut silence, and scents of eglantere,And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."And they held their breath till they left the room,With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.But he who loved her too well to dreadThe sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,He lit his lamp and took the keyAnd turned it. Alone again—he and she!He and she; but she would not speak,Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.He and she; yet she would not smile,Though he called her the name she loved ere-while.He and she; still she did not moveTo any one passionate whisper of love.Then he said: "Cold lips, and breasts without breath,Is there no voice, no language of death,"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;What was the secret of dying, dear?"Was it the infinite wonder of allThat you ever could let life's flower fall?"Or was it a greater marvel to feelThe perfect calm o'er the agony steal?"Was the miracle greater to find how deepBeyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?"Did life roll back its records, dear,And show, as they say it does, past things clear?"And was it the innermost heart of the blissTo find out, so, what a wisdom love is?"O perfect dead! O dead most dear,I hold the breath of my soul to hear!"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,As high as to heaven, and you do not tell."There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,To make you so placid from head to feet!"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—"I would say, though the angel of death had laidHis sword on my lips to keep it unsaid."You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise,"The very strangest and suddenest thingOf all the surprises that dying must bring."Ah, foolish world! O, most kind dead!Though he told me, who will believe it was said?Who will believe that he heard her say,With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:"The utmost wonder is this,—I hear,And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;"And am your angel, who was your bride,And know that, though dead, I have never died."SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
THE SECRET OF DEATH.
"She is dead!" they said to him; "come away;Kiss her and leave her,—thy love is clay!"
They smoothed her tresses of dark brown hair;On her forehead of stone they laid it fair;
Over her eyes that gazed too muchThey drew the lids with a gentle touch;
With a tender touch they closed up wellThe sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;
About her brows and beautiful faceThey tied her veil and her marriage-lace,
And drew on her white feet her white silk shoes—Which were the whitest no eye could choose!
And over her bosom they crossed her hands."Come away!" they said; "God understands!"
And there was silence, and nothing thereBut silence, and scents of eglantere,
And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;And they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she."
And they held their breath till they left the room,With a shudder, to glance at its stillness and gloom.
But he who loved her too well to dreadThe sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,
He lit his lamp and took the keyAnd turned it. Alone again—he and she!
He and she; but she would not speak,Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek.
He and she; yet she would not smile,Though he called her the name she loved ere-while.
He and she; still she did not moveTo any one passionate whisper of love.
Then he said: "Cold lips, and breasts without breath,Is there no voice, no language of death,
"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense,But to heart and to soul distinct, intense?
"See now; I will listen with soul, not ear;What was the secret of dying, dear?
"Was it the infinite wonder of allThat you ever could let life's flower fall?
"Or was it a greater marvel to feelThe perfect calm o'er the agony steal?
"Was the miracle greater to find how deepBeyond all dreams sank downward that sleep?
"Did life roll back its records, dear,And show, as they say it does, past things clear?
"And was it the innermost heart of the blissTo find out, so, what a wisdom love is?
"O perfect dead! O dead most dear,I hold the breath of my soul to hear!
"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,As high as to heaven, and you do not tell.
"There must be pleasure in dying, sweet,To make you so placid from head to feet!
"I would tell you, darling, if I were dead,And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed,—
"I would say, though the angel of death had laidHis sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.
"You should not ask vainly, with streaming eyes,Which of all death's was the chiefest surprise,
"The very strangest and suddenest thingOf all the surprises that dying must bring."
Ah, foolish world! O, most kind dead!Though he told me, who will believe it was said?
Who will believe that he heard her say,With a sweet, soft voice, in the dear old way:
"The utmost wonder is this,—I hear,And see you, and love you, and kiss you, dear;
"And am your angel, who was your bride,And know that, though dead, I have never died."
SIR EDWIN ARNOLD.
PEACE.There is the peace that cometh after sorrow,Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled;A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow,But calmly on a tempest that is stilled.A peace which lives not now in joy's excesses,Nor in the happy life of love secure,But in the unerring strength the heart possesses,Of conflicts won, while learning to endure.A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded,A life subdued, from will and passion free;'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded,But that which triumphed in Gethsemane.ANONYMOUS.
PEACE.
There is the peace that cometh after sorrow,Of hope surrendered, not of hope fulfilled;A peace that looketh not upon to-morrow,But calmly on a tempest that is stilled.
A peace which lives not now in joy's excesses,Nor in the happy life of love secure,But in the unerring strength the heart possesses,Of conflicts won, while learning to endure.
A peace-there is, in sacrifice secluded,A life subdued, from will and passion free;'Tis not the peace that over Eden brooded,But that which triumphed in Gethsemane.
ANONYMOUS.
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.When the hours of day are numbered,And the voices of the nightWake the better soul that slumberedTo a holy, calm delight,—Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlor wall;Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door,—The beloved ones, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more:He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the roadside fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!And with them the being beauteousWho unto my youth was given,More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.With a slow and noiseless footstep,Comes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gentle hand in mine;And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.O, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid asideIf I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
FOOTSTEPS OF ANGELS.
When the hours of day are numbered,And the voices of the nightWake the better soul that slumberedTo a holy, calm delight,—
Ere the evening lamps are lighted,And, like phantoms grim and tall,Shadows from the fitful firelightDance upon the parlor wall;
Then the forms of the departedEnter at the open door,—The beloved ones, the true-hearted,Come to visit me once more:
He, the young and strong, who cherishedNoble longings for the strife,By the roadside fell and perished,Weary with the march of life!
They, the holy ones and weakly,Who the cross of suffering bore,Folded their pale hands so meekly,Spake with us on earth no more!
And with them the being beauteousWho unto my youth was given,More than all things else to love me,And is now a saint in heaven.
With a slow and noiseless footstep,Comes that messenger divine,Takes the vacant chair beside me,Lays her gentle hand in mine;
And she sits and gazes at meWith those deep and tender eyes,Like the stars, so still and saint-like,Looking downward from the skies.
Uttered not, yet comprehended,Is the spirit's voiceless prayer,Soft rebukes, in blessings ended,Breathing from her lips of air.
O, though oft depressed and lonely,All my fears are laid asideIf I but remember onlySuch as these have lived and died!
HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.
HAPPY ARE THE DEAD.I walked the other day, to spend my hour,Into a field,Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yieldA gallant flower:But winter now had ruffled all the bowerAnd curious storeI knew there heretofore.Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peerIn the face of things,Thought with myself, there might be other springsBeside this here,Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year;And so the flowerMight have some other bower.Then taking up what I could nearest spy,I digged aboutThat place where I had seen him to grow out;And by and byI saw the warm recluse alone to lie,Where fresh and greenHe lived of us unseen.Many a question intricate and rareDid I there strow;But all I could extort was, that he nowDid there repairSuch losses as befell him in this air,And would erelongCome forth most fair and young.This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head;And, stung with fearOf my own frailty, dropped down many a tearUpon his bed;Then, sighing, whispered,Happy are the dead!What peace doth nowRock him asleep below!And yet, how few believe such doctrine springsFrom a poor rootWhich all the winter sleeps here under foot,And hath no wingsTo raise it to the truth and light of things,But is still trodBy every wandering clod!O thou whose spirit did at first inflameAnd warm the dead!And by a sacred incubation fedWith life this frame,Which once had neither being, form, nor name!Grant I may soThy steps track here below,That in these masks and shadows I may seeThy sacred way;And by those hid ascents climb to that dayWhich breaks from thee,Who art in all things, though invisibly:Show me thy peace,Thy mercy, love, and ease.And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign,Lead me above,Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts moveWithout all pain:There, hid in thee, show me his life againAt whose dumb urnThus all the year I mourn.HENRY VAUGHAN.
HAPPY ARE THE DEAD.
I walked the other day, to spend my hour,Into a field,Where I sometimes had seen the soil to yieldA gallant flower:But winter now had ruffled all the bowerAnd curious storeI knew there heretofore.
Yet I, whose search loved not to peep and peerIn the face of things,Thought with myself, there might be other springsBeside this here,Which, like cold friends, sees us but once a year;And so the flowerMight have some other bower.
Then taking up what I could nearest spy,I digged aboutThat place where I had seen him to grow out;And by and byI saw the warm recluse alone to lie,Where fresh and greenHe lived of us unseen.
Many a question intricate and rareDid I there strow;But all I could extort was, that he nowDid there repairSuch losses as befell him in this air,And would erelongCome forth most fair and young.
This past, I threw the clothes quite o'er his head;And, stung with fearOf my own frailty, dropped down many a tearUpon his bed;Then, sighing, whispered,Happy are the dead!What peace doth nowRock him asleep below!
And yet, how few believe such doctrine springsFrom a poor rootWhich all the winter sleeps here under foot,And hath no wingsTo raise it to the truth and light of things,But is still trodBy every wandering clod!
O thou whose spirit did at first inflameAnd warm the dead!And by a sacred incubation fedWith life this frame,Which once had neither being, form, nor name!Grant I may soThy steps track here below,
That in these masks and shadows I may seeThy sacred way;And by those hid ascents climb to that dayWhich breaks from thee,Who art in all things, though invisibly:Show me thy peace,Thy mercy, love, and ease.
And from this care, where dreams and sorrows reign,Lead me above,Where light, joy, leisure, and true comforts moveWithout all pain:There, hid in thee, show me his life againAt whose dumb urnThus all the year I mourn.
HENRY VAUGHAN.
THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.The work of the sun is slow,But as sure as heaven, we know;So we'll not forget,When the skies are wet,There's green grass under the snow.When the winds of winter blow,Wailing like voices of woe,There are April showers,And buds and flowers,And green grass under the snow.We find that it's ever soIn this life's uneven flow;We've only to wait,In the face of fate,For the green grass under the snow.ANNIE A. PRESTON.
THE GREEN GRASS UNDER THE SNOW.
The work of the sun is slow,But as sure as heaven, we know;So we'll not forget,When the skies are wet,There's green grass under the snow.
When the winds of winter blow,Wailing like voices of woe,There are April showers,And buds and flowers,And green grass under the snow.
We find that it's ever soIn this life's uneven flow;We've only to wait,In the face of fate,For the green grass under the snow.
ANNIE A. PRESTON.
THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,And yet the monument proclaims it not,Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wroughtThe emblems of a fame that never dies,Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.A simple name alone,To the great world unknown,Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round,Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,Lean lovingly against the humble stone.Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apartNo man of iron mould and bloody hands,Who sought to wreck upon the cowering landsThe passions that consumed his restless heart:But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,Gentlest in mien and mind,Of gentle womankind,Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;One in whose eyes the smile of kindness madeIts haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May,Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shadeOf sweeter sadness chased the smile away.Nor deem that when the hand that molders hereWas raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,And armies mustered at the sign, as whenClouds rise on clouds before the rainy East,Gray captains leading bands of veteran menAnd fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gaveThe victory to her who fills this grave;Alone her task was wrought,Alone the battle fought;Through that long strife her constant hope was staidOn God alone, nor looked for other aid.She met the hosts of sorrow with a lookThat altered not beneath the frown they wore,And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more.Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,And calmly broke in twainThe fiery shafts of pain,And rent the nets of passion from her path.By that victorious hand despair was slain.With love she vanquished hate and overcameEvil with good, in her Great Master's name.Her glory is not of this shadowy state,Glory that with the fleeting season dies;But when she entered at the sapphire gateWhat joy was radiant in celestial eyes!How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!And He who, long before,Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;He who returning, glorious, from the grave,Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I goConsoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.Brief is the time, I know,The warfare scarce begun;Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;The victors' names are yet too few to fillHeaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,That ministered to thee, is open still.WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THE CONQUEROR'S GRAVE.
Within this lowly grave a Conqueror lies,And yet the monument proclaims it not,Nor round the sleeper's name hath chisel wroughtThe emblems of a fame that never dies,Ivy and amaranth in a graceful sheaf,Twined with the laurel's fair, imperial leaf.A simple name alone,To the great world unknown,Is graven here, and wild flowers, rising round,Meek meadow-sweet and violets of the ground,Lean lovingly against the humble stone.
Here, in the quiet earth, they laid apartNo man of iron mould and bloody hands,Who sought to wreck upon the cowering landsThe passions that consumed his restless heart:But one of tender spirit and delicate frame,Gentlest in mien and mind,Of gentle womankind,Timidly shrinking from the breath of blame;One in whose eyes the smile of kindness madeIts haunt, like flowers by sunny brooks in May,Yet, at the thought of others' pain, a shadeOf sweeter sadness chased the smile away.
Nor deem that when the hand that molders hereWas raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,And armies mustered at the sign, as whenClouds rise on clouds before the rainy East,Gray captains leading bands of veteran menAnd fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gaveThe victory to her who fills this grave;Alone her task was wrought,Alone the battle fought;Through that long strife her constant hope was staidOn God alone, nor looked for other aid.
She met the hosts of sorrow with a lookThat altered not beneath the frown they wore,And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more.Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,And calmly broke in twainThe fiery shafts of pain,And rent the nets of passion from her path.By that victorious hand despair was slain.With love she vanquished hate and overcameEvil with good, in her Great Master's name.
Her glory is not of this shadowy state,Glory that with the fleeting season dies;But when she entered at the sapphire gateWhat joy was radiant in celestial eyes!How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!And He who, long before,Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore,The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;He who returning, glorious, from the grave,Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.
See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near.Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I goConsoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear.Brief is the time, I know,The warfare scarce begun;Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;The victors' names are yet too few to fillHeaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,That ministered to thee, is open still.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.Thou art gone to the grave—and, its mansion forsaking,Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long,But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.Thou art gone to the grave—but 't were wrong to deplore thee,When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide;He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.REGINALD HEBER.
THOU ART GONE TO THE GRAVE.
Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb;The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.
Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side;But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.
Thou art gone to the grave—and, its mansion forsaking,Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long,But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.
Thou art gone to the grave—but 't were wrong to deplore thee,When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide;He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.
REGINALD HEBER.
LYCIDAS.Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crudeAnd with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year,Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due;For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse;So may some gentle museWith lucky words favor my destined urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud;For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening brightToward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad song would not be absent long,And old Damætas loved to hear our song.But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone—Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn;The willows, and the hazel copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream—Ay me! I fondly dream,Had ye been there; for what could that have done?What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,The muse herself for her enchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble minds)To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies;But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood;But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune's plea;He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged windsThat blows from off each beakèd promontory;They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopè with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe.Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?Last came, and last did go,The pilot of the Galilean Lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as for their bellies' sakeCreep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?Of other care they little reckoning make,Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!What recks it them? what need they? they are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said;But that two-handed engine at the door,Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears.Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies,For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away where'er thy bones are hurled,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded mountLooks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth!And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more!For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky;So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints above,In solemn troops and sweet societies,That sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals gray;He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay;At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new.MILTON.
LYCIDAS.
Yet once more, O ye laurels, and once moreYe myrtles brown, with ivy never sere,I come to pluck your berries harsh and crudeAnd with forced fingers rudeShatter your leaves before the mellowing year,Bitter constraint, and sad occasion dear,Compels me to disturb your season due;For Lycidas is dead, dead ere his prime,Young Lycidas, and hath not left his peer.Who would not sing for Lycidas? He knewHimself to sing, and build the lofty rhyme.He must not float upon his watery bierUnwept, and welter to the parching wind,Without the meed of some melodious tear.Begin then, sisters of the sacred well,That from beneath the seat of Jove doth spring,Begin, and somewhat loudly sweep the string.Hence with denial vain, and coy excuse;So may some gentle museWith lucky words favor my destined urn,And as he passes turn,And bid fair peace be to my sable shroud;For we were nursed upon the self-same hill,Fed the same flock by fountain, shade, and rill.Together both, ere the high lawns appearedUnder the opening eyelids of the morn,We drove a-field, and both together heardWhat time the gray-fly winds her sultry horn,Battening our flocks with the fresh dews of night,Oft till the star that rose at evening brightToward heaven's descent had sloped his westering wheel.Meanwhile the rural ditties were not mute,Tempered to the oaten flute;Rough satyrs danced, and fauns with cloven heelFrom the glad song would not be absent long,And old Damætas loved to hear our song.But, oh, the heavy change, now thou art gone—Now thou art gone, and never must return!Thee, shepherd, thee the woods, and desert caves,With wild thyme and the gadding vine o'ergrown,And all their echoes, mourn;The willows, and the hazel copses green,Shall now no more be seen,Fanning their joyous leaves to thy soft lays.As killing as the canker to the rose,Or taint-worm to the weanling herds that graze,Or frost to flowers, that their gay wardrobe wear,When first the white-thorn blows;Such, Lycidas, thy loss to shepherd's ear.Where were ye, nymphs, when the remorseless deepClosed o'er the head of your loved Lycidas?For neither were ye playing on the steep,Where your old bards, the famous druids, lie,Nor on the shaggy top of Mona high,Nor yet where Deva spreads her wizard stream—Ay me! I fondly dream,Had ye been there; for what could that have done?What could the muse herself that Orpheus bore,The muse herself for her enchanting son,Whom universal nature did lament,When, by the rout that made the hideous roar,His gory visage down the stream was sent,Down the swift Hebrus to the Lesbian shore?Alas! what boots it with incessant careTo tend the homely, slighted shepherd's trade,And strictly meditate the thankless muse?Were it not better done, as others use,To sport with Amaryllis in the shade,Or with the tangles of Neaera's hair?Fame is the spur that the clear spirit doth raise(That last infirmity of noble minds)To scorn delights, and live laborious days;But the fair guerdon when we hope to find,And think to burst out into sudden blaze,Comes the blind fury with the abhorred shears,And slits the thin-spun life. But not the praise,Phoebus replied, and touched my trembling ears;Fame is no plant that grows on mortal soil,Nor in the glistering foilSet off to the world, nor in broad rumor lies;But lives and spreads aloft by those pure eyesAnd perfect witness of all-judging Jove;As he pronounces lastly on each deed,Of so much fame in heaven expect thy meed.O fountain Arethuse, and thou honored flood,Smooth-sliding Mincius, crowned with vocal reeds,That strain I heard was of a higher mood;But now my oat proceeds,And listens to the herald of the seaThat came in Neptune's plea;He asked the waves, and asked the felon winds,What hard mishap hath doomed this gentle swain?And questioned every gust of rugged windsThat blows from off each beakèd promontory;They knew not of his story;And sage Hippotades their answer brings,That not a blast was from his dungeon strayed;The air was calm, and on the level brineSleek Panopè with all her sisters played.It was that fatal and perfidious bark,Built in th' eclipse, and rigged with curses dark,That sunk so low that sacred head of thine.Next Camus, reverend sire, went footing slow,His mantle hairy, and his bonnet sedge,Inwrought with figures dim, and on the edge,Like to that sanguine flower, inscribed with woe.Ah! who hath reft (quoth he) my dearest pledge?Last came, and last did go,The pilot of the Galilean Lake;Two massy keys he bore of metals twain(The golden opes, the iron shuts amain);He shook his mitred locks, and stern bespake:How well could I have spared for thee, young swain,Enow of such as for their bellies' sakeCreep, and intrude, and climb into the fold?Of other care they little reckoning make,Than how to scramble at the shearers' feast,And shove away the worthy bidden guest;Blind mouths! that scarce themselves know how to holdA sheep-hook, or have learned aught else the leastThat to the faithful herdsman's art belongs!What recks it them? what need they? they are sped;And when they list, their lean and flashy songsGrate on their scrannel pipes of wretched straw;The hungry sheep look up, and are not fed,But, swollen with wind and the rank mist they draw,Rot inwardly, and foul contagion spread;Besides what the grim wolf with privy pawDaily devours apace, and nothing said;But that two-handed engine at the door,Stands ready to smite once, and smite no more.Return, Alpheus, the dread voice is past,That shrunk thy streams; return, Sicilian muse,And call the vales, and bid them hither castTheir bells, and flowerets of a thousand hues.Ye valleys low, where the mild whispers useOf shades, and wanton winds, and gushing brooks,On whose fresh lap the swart-star sparely looks,Throw hither all your quaint enamelled eyes,That on the green turf suck the honeyed showers,And purple all the ground with vernal flowers.Bring the rathe primrose that forsaken dies,The tufted crow-toe, and pale jessamine,The white pink, and the pansy freaked with jet,The glowing violet,The musk-rose, and the well-attired woodbine,With cowslips wan that hang the pensive head,And every flower that sad embroidery wears.Bid Amaranthus all his beauty shed,And daffodillies fill their cups with tears,To strew the laureat hearse where Lycid lies,For so to interpose a little ease,Let our frail thoughts dally with false surmise.Ay me! whilst thee the shores and sounding seasWash far away where'er thy bones are hurled,Whether beyond the stormy Hebrides,Where thou perhaps under the whelming tideVisit'st the bottom of the monstrous world;Or whether thou to our moist vows denied,Sleep'st by the fable of Bellerus old,Where the great vision of the guarded mountLooks towards Namancos and Bayona's hold;Look homeward angel now, and melt with ruth!And, O ye dolphins, waft the hapless youth!Weep no more, woful shepherds, weep no more!For Lycidas your sorrow is not dead,Sunk though he be beneath the watery floor.So sinks the day-star in the ocean bed,And yet anon repairs his drooping head,And tricks his beams, and with new-spangled oreFlames in the forehead of the morning sky;So Lycidas sunk low, but mounted high,Through the dear might of Him that walked the waves,Where, other groves and other streams along,With nectar pure his oozy locks he laves,And hears the unexpressive nuptial song,In the blest kingdoms meek of joy and love.There entertain him all the saints above,In solemn troops and sweet societies,That sing, and singing in their glory move,And wipe the tears forever from his eyes.Now, Lycidas, the shepherds weep no more;Henceforth thou art the genius of the shore,In thy large recompense, and shalt be goodTo all that wander in that perilous flood.Thus sang the uncouth swain to th' oaks and rills,While the still morn went out with sandals gray;He touched the tender stops of various quills,With eager thought warbling his Doric lay.And now the sun had stretched out all the hills,And now was dropt into the western bay;At last he rose, and twitched his mantle blue:To-morrow to fresh, woods and pastures new.
MILTON.