III.SHADOW-LAND.

Could we but knowThe land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,—Ah, if beyond the spirit’s inmost cavil,Aught of that country could we surely know,Who would not go?Might we but hearThe hovering angels’ high imagined chorus,Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,One radiant vista of the realm before us,—With one rapt moment given to see and hear,Ah, who would fear?Were we quite sureTo find the peerless friend who left us lonely,Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,—This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,Who would endure?

Could we but know

The land that ends our dark, uncertain travel,

Where lie those happier hills and meadows low,—

Ah, if beyond the spirit’s inmost cavil,

Aught of that country could we surely know,

Who would not go?

Might we but hearThe hovering angels’ high imagined chorus,Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,One radiant vista of the realm before us,—With one rapt moment given to see and hear,Ah, who would fear?

Might we but hear

The hovering angels’ high imagined chorus,

Or catch, betimes, with wakeful eyes and clear,

One radiant vista of the realm before us,—

With one rapt moment given to see and hear,

Ah, who would fear?

Were we quite sureTo find the peerless friend who left us lonely,Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,—This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,Who would endure?

Were we quite sure

To find the peerless friend who left us lonely,

Or there, by some celestial stream as pure,

To gaze in eyes that here were lovelit only,—

This weary mortal coil, were we quite sure,

Who would endure?

Waking, I have been nigh to Death,—Have felt the chillness of his breathWhiten my cheek and numb my heart,And wondered why he stayed his dart,—Yet quailed not, but could meet him so,As any lesser friend or foe.But sleeping, in the dreams of night,His phantom stifles me with fright!O God! what frozen horrors fallUpon me with his visioned pall:The movelessness, the unknown dread,Fair life to pulseless silence wed!Andisthe grave so darkly deep,So hopeless, as it seems in sleep?Can our sweet selves the coffin holdSo dumb within its crumbling mould?And is the shroud so dank and drearA garb,—the noisome worm so near?Where then is Heaven’s mercy fled,—To quite forget the voiceless dead?

Waking, I have been nigh to Death,—

Have felt the chillness of his breath

Whiten my cheek and numb my heart,

And wondered why he stayed his dart,—

Yet quailed not, but could meet him so,

As any lesser friend or foe.

But sleeping, in the dreams of night,His phantom stifles me with fright!O God! what frozen horrors fallUpon me with his visioned pall:The movelessness, the unknown dread,Fair life to pulseless silence wed!

But sleeping, in the dreams of night,

His phantom stifles me with fright!

O God! what frozen horrors fall

Upon me with his visioned pall:

The movelessness, the unknown dread,

Fair life to pulseless silence wed!

Andisthe grave so darkly deep,So hopeless, as it seems in sleep?Can our sweet selves the coffin holdSo dumb within its crumbling mould?And is the shroud so dank and drearA garb,—the noisome worm so near?

Andisthe grave so darkly deep,

So hopeless, as it seems in sleep?

Can our sweet selves the coffin hold

So dumb within its crumbling mould?

And is the shroud so dank and drear

A garb,—the noisome worm so near?

Where then is Heaven’s mercy fled,—To quite forget the voiceless dead?

Where then is Heaven’s mercy fled,—

To quite forget the voiceless dead?

All night we hear the rattling flaw,The casements shiver with each breath;And still more near the foemen draw,The pioneers of Death.Their grisly chieftain comes:He steals upon us in the night;Call up the guards! light every light!Beat the alarum drums!His tramp is at the outer door;He bears against the shuddering walls;Lo! what a dismal frost and hoarUpon the window falls!Outbar him while ye may!Feed, feed the watch-fires everywhere,—Even yet their cheery warmth will scareThis thing of night away.Ye cannot! something chokes the grateAnd clogs the air within its flues,And runners from the entrance-gateCome chill with evil news:The bars are broken ope!Ha! he has scaled the inner wall!But fight him still, from hall to hall;While life remains, there’s hope.Too late! the very frame is dust,The locks and trammels fall apart;He reaches, scornful of their trust,The portals of the heart.Ay, take the citadel!But where, grim Conqueror, is thy prey?In vain thou’lt search each secret way,Its flight is hidden well.We yield thee, for thy paltry spoils,This shell, this ruin thou hast made;Its tenant has escaped thy toils,Though they were darkly laid.Even now, immortal, pure,It gains a house not made with hands,A refuge in serener lands,A heritage secure.

All night we hear the rattling flaw,

The casements shiver with each breath;

And still more near the foemen draw,

The pioneers of Death.

Their grisly chieftain comes:

He steals upon us in the night;

Call up the guards! light every light!

Beat the alarum drums!

His tramp is at the outer door;He bears against the shuddering walls;Lo! what a dismal frost and hoarUpon the window falls!Outbar him while ye may!Feed, feed the watch-fires everywhere,—Even yet their cheery warmth will scareThis thing of night away.

His tramp is at the outer door;

He bears against the shuddering walls;

Lo! what a dismal frost and hoar

Upon the window falls!

Outbar him while ye may!

Feed, feed the watch-fires everywhere,—

Even yet their cheery warmth will scare

This thing of night away.

Ye cannot! something chokes the grateAnd clogs the air within its flues,And runners from the entrance-gateCome chill with evil news:The bars are broken ope!Ha! he has scaled the inner wall!But fight him still, from hall to hall;While life remains, there’s hope.

Ye cannot! something chokes the grate

And clogs the air within its flues,

And runners from the entrance-gate

Come chill with evil news:

The bars are broken ope!

Ha! he has scaled the inner wall!

But fight him still, from hall to hall;

While life remains, there’s hope.

Too late! the very frame is dust,The locks and trammels fall apart;He reaches, scornful of their trust,The portals of the heart.Ay, take the citadel!But where, grim Conqueror, is thy prey?In vain thou’lt search each secret way,Its flight is hidden well.

Too late! the very frame is dust,

The locks and trammels fall apart;

He reaches, scornful of their trust,

The portals of the heart.

Ay, take the citadel!

But where, grim Conqueror, is thy prey?

In vain thou’lt search each secret way,

Its flight is hidden well.

We yield thee, for thy paltry spoils,This shell, this ruin thou hast made;Its tenant has escaped thy toils,Though they were darkly laid.Even now, immortal, pure,It gains a house not made with hands,A refuge in serener lands,A heritage secure.

We yield thee, for thy paltry spoils,

This shell, this ruin thou hast made;

Its tenant has escaped thy toils,

Though they were darkly laid.

Even now, immortal, pure,

It gains a house not made with hands,

A refuge in serener lands,

A heritage secure.

We stood around the dreamless formWhose strength was so untimely shaken,Whose sleep not all our love could warm,Nor any dearest voice awaken;And while the Autumn breathed her sighs,And dropped a thousand leafy glories,And all the pathways, and the skies,Were mindful of his songs and stories,Nor failed to wear the mingled huesHe loved, and knew so well to render,But wooed,—alas, in vain!—their MuseFor one more tuneful lay and tender,We paused awhile,—the gathered fewWho came, in longing, not in duty,—With eyes that full of weeping grew,To look their last upon his beauty.Death would not rudely rob that face,Nor dim its fine Arcadian brightness,But gave the lines a clearer grace,And sleep’s repose, and marble’s whiteness.And, gazing there on him so young,We thought of all his ended mission,The broken links, the songs unsung,The love that found no ripe fruition;Till last the old, old question cameTo hearts that beat with life around him,Why Death, with downward torch aflame,Had searched our number till he found him?Why passed the one who poorly knows,That blithesome spell for either fortune,Or mocked with lingering menace thoseWhose pains the final thrust importune;Or left the toiling ones who bearThe crowd’s neglect, the want that presses,The woes no human soul can share,Nor look, nor spoken word, confesses.And from the earth no answer came,The forest wore a stillness deeper,The sky and lake smiled on the same,And voiceless as the silent sleeper.And so we turned ourselves away,By earth and air and water chidden,And left him with them, where he lay,A sharer of their secret hidden.And each the staff and shell againTook up, and marched with memories haunted;But henceforth, in our pilgrim-strain,We’ll miss a voice that sweetly chaunted!

We stood around the dreamless formWhose strength was so untimely shaken,Whose sleep not all our love could warm,Nor any dearest voice awaken;

We stood around the dreamless form

Whose strength was so untimely shaken,

Whose sleep not all our love could warm,

Nor any dearest voice awaken;

And while the Autumn breathed her sighs,And dropped a thousand leafy glories,And all the pathways, and the skies,Were mindful of his songs and stories,

And while the Autumn breathed her sighs,

And dropped a thousand leafy glories,

And all the pathways, and the skies,

Were mindful of his songs and stories,

Nor failed to wear the mingled huesHe loved, and knew so well to render,But wooed,—alas, in vain!—their MuseFor one more tuneful lay and tender,

Nor failed to wear the mingled hues

He loved, and knew so well to render,

But wooed,—alas, in vain!—their Muse

For one more tuneful lay and tender,

We paused awhile,—the gathered fewWho came, in longing, not in duty,—With eyes that full of weeping grew,To look their last upon his beauty.

We paused awhile,—the gathered few

Who came, in longing, not in duty,—

With eyes that full of weeping grew,

To look their last upon his beauty.

Death would not rudely rob that face,Nor dim its fine Arcadian brightness,But gave the lines a clearer grace,And sleep’s repose, and marble’s whiteness.

Death would not rudely rob that face,

Nor dim its fine Arcadian brightness,

But gave the lines a clearer grace,

And sleep’s repose, and marble’s whiteness.

And, gazing there on him so young,We thought of all his ended mission,The broken links, the songs unsung,The love that found no ripe fruition;

And, gazing there on him so young,

We thought of all his ended mission,

The broken links, the songs unsung,

The love that found no ripe fruition;

Till last the old, old question cameTo hearts that beat with life around him,Why Death, with downward torch aflame,Had searched our number till he found him?

Till last the old, old question came

To hearts that beat with life around him,

Why Death, with downward torch aflame,

Had searched our number till he found him?

Why passed the one who poorly knows,That blithesome spell for either fortune,Or mocked with lingering menace thoseWhose pains the final thrust importune;

Why passed the one who poorly knows,

That blithesome spell for either fortune,

Or mocked with lingering menace those

Whose pains the final thrust importune;

Or left the toiling ones who bearThe crowd’s neglect, the want that presses,The woes no human soul can share,Nor look, nor spoken word, confesses.

Or left the toiling ones who bear

The crowd’s neglect, the want that presses,

The woes no human soul can share,

Nor look, nor spoken word, confesses.

And from the earth no answer came,The forest wore a stillness deeper,The sky and lake smiled on the same,And voiceless as the silent sleeper.

And from the earth no answer came,

The forest wore a stillness deeper,

The sky and lake smiled on the same,

And voiceless as the silent sleeper.

And so we turned ourselves away,By earth and air and water chidden,And left him with them, where he lay,A sharer of their secret hidden.

And so we turned ourselves away,

By earth and air and water chidden,

And left him with them, where he lay,

A sharer of their secret hidden.

And each the staff and shell againTook up, and marched with memories haunted;But henceforth, in our pilgrim-strain,We’ll miss a voice that sweetly chaunted!

And each the staff and shell again

Took up, and marched with memories haunted;

But henceforth, in our pilgrim-strain,

We’ll miss a voice that sweetly chaunted!

What would you do, my dear one said,—What would you do, if I were dead?If Death should mumble, as he list,These red lips which now you kist?What would my love do, were I wedTo that ghastly groom instead;If o’er me, in the chancel, DeathShould cast his amaranthine wreath,—Before my eyes, with fingers pale,Draw down the mouldy bridal veil?—Ah no! no! it cannot be!Death would spare their light, and flee,And leave my love to Life and me!

What would you do, my dear one said,—

What would you do, if I were dead?

If Death should mumble, as he list,

These red lips which now you kist?

What would my love do, were I wed

To that ghastly groom instead;

If o’er me, in the chancel, Death

Should cast his amaranthine wreath,—

Before my eyes, with fingers pale,

Draw down the mouldy bridal veil?

—Ah no! no! it cannot be!

Death would spare their light, and flee,

And leave my love to Life and me!

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