Chapter 6

Now the old church bell Tolls forth its death knell, Mournfully to tell The hour has come at last, In heavy sadness past, To bury the dead, And in silence bid. Then the mourners go, All mournfully slow, Every heart beating low The march of the dead. All with soft and gentle tread Unto the sepulchre sped, And humbly bent every head, Bearing to her last home the dead, In all the obsequies due; Every follower, in presence true, Many a well-known neighbour view, Paying his last meet respect Unto her who has gone, And whose remembrance shone Bright in the memory of them. Now through the old town they pace-- The good old familiar place, Where often in time before She, in life's abounding store, Passed by many a friendly door. But now, how changed is the scene! She, cold in death's awful sheen, Is borne unto the still hallowed green. Every passer turns to see, And they say, "Who can it be?" And they ponder in the thought-- One more unto death brought. Soon may we, too, soon be sought. But they who her in life knew Feel the truth more strangely true, And they take a sadder view Of the great loss to the few, Who received the bosom love Which her kind deeds went to prove. Now they tread in the hallowed ground, Where the sons of ages have found Together a home. And they pause by the chosen ground, And all, in a silence profound, Hear the words of comfort flow, In deep power, sadly and low, From the messenger of love, Appointed of God above To tell to His people peace, And from care a glad release; And his words of comfort are Sweeter to their hearts by far Than balm to a seething wound. And now they lay In the cold clay, To moulder away, All that is mortal of her. O grave! receive her; Ye have no terror, But to relieve her A world of woe. 'Tis but a season, Waiting in reason, She shall be there. She hath gone down corruptible, But shall rise incorruptible, Adorned and fair, When this grave which is closed Shall again be disclosed, And the Good Shepherd shall call Together unto Him all His people, faithful and good, Who in life steadfast have stood. O widower! weep not, And, orphans, lament not. Weep not by the cold grave, Long not that ye might have Her with you again; But let her remain Alone in the grave, In the peace of her last long abode. Far sweeter is death unto her now.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

All hath been finished now; And from the darkened brow Of the grave the people move, Pondering his own heart to prove, Each unto his home. While of the old dead's demesne Hallowed fancies come, Living and clear, urgent and fain, As they visit in thought again And again the place where remain Their fathers, the sons of many ages, Gathered from the ever-turning pages Of the volume of time, Like a long running rhyme-- Old age and youth, Falsehood and truth, Beauty and pride Side unto side In that old churchyard, In the sacred guard Of hallowed rest. Then a behest Moveth the breast To be holy and meek, Lowly to seek Life unto life, Bearing through strife Unto the end, Trying to blend Love unto life.

HOME SORROW.

Woe is the guest Of every breast As they turn from the grave, Bordered in a wave Of melancholy deep. But their woe is not as our woe In fervor or depth; they cannot know The fulness to weep Which we know,-- We who have held the keep Of her noble heart, Who was of our unity the crown, And who was the bosom of our home, Where did the soul of every member come. We know the part, As true mourners, to weep; For never again, While time doth remain, Shall we hear her voice Relating in choice Some well-pleasing tale, Which never could fail The hours to beguile, As many a smile Ran from face unto face. But now her wonted place Is vacant, and we Can sorrow but see In all things which she By remembrance comes. Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief, Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief, Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart, Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart, Leading the mind from vain follies away, To seek a more sacred and truthful array.

IN REMEMBRANCE.

O memory of a mother gone! Whene'er with others, or alone, I hear or breathe that sacred name, May it allure the hallowed flame To shine on thee, and lead thy son Into a better life, begun Unworthy that which hath been done. For him and all, and us anon, In course of life I hear the knell Of mournful, solemn funeral bell, Or see the deep black drapings flow Of funeral cortege moving slow. Or, when the sombre weeds I don, May they of warning not be lone, But freely tell, in solemn truth, The waning of my boasted youth; That ere a while those rites shall be Obsequies fashioned over me. Then heedless, hasty spirit, pause To learn and know the better cause Wherefore ye live, and freely ask Of wisdom for a fitter task.

TO THE OBSERVER.

Pause, cold observer, pause awhile; Why will not death thy thoughts beguile? Think ye for ever to abide By this deluding desert side? O wanderer, turn; O wanderer, stay; Why will ye spurn The voice to-day? A little while-- An hour--may bring A broken smile, Death on the wing, To bear thee down By laden grief Beneath his frown. The time is brief. Then stay, oh stay! And lend an ear To what the dead-- The dying say. Thy doom is hid, Thy death is near; The Judge will bid Thee soon appear.

THE WORLD'S END.

The gates of heaven are opened, and, behold, The herald comes upon the wings of night, When men in slumber lie, and when abroad The robber goes to plunder what he can; And when the lusty have gone forth to cull A night's defilement in an evil way; The gambler sitteth at his dizzy game, The sotted drunkard feeds his bestial thirst, And revel dancers are aloud in mirth. Alike the heedless and the godly sleep, When from the herald's waking trumpet comes The awful and sonorous cadence, which Shall roll around the earth from pole to pole-- More grand, more great, and more tremendous than The voice of terror in the stormy sky, As when a thousand thunders war therein An angry war among the heavy clouds. And at the sound the wicked tremble sore, For now they know an awful doom at hand, And quail to find no rescue from its power. The robber drops the plunder from his hand; The lusty startle at the mighty sound, And from their beds of sin turn wildly forth; And from his game the gambler leaps amazed And terror-struck; whereas the drunkard wakes-- The sotted drunkard--from his stupid sleep, And feels the awful terrors of the hour. But by the righteous is the sound received As the glad tidings which they long have sought; For well they know the glory of the sign, When He, their true Deliverer, shall come. The earth shall tremble and rebound, and all The graves shall ope their darkened mouths, until The long-forgotten dead shall come therefrom. Then He who is the Judge appears forth from The heavenly gates; upon the lurid flame His chariot shall roll, and on the clouds Of sable smoke, down through the stormy sky, Where roar tremendous thunders, mid the cries Of agony and fear, which rise anon, Heartrending, from the lost, in anguish sore, Who call for shelter, but have no reply, Save terrors still more awful than before; Who seek for mercy, when their fearful doom Shall echo in their ear, "Too late! too late!" Then all the earth shall be engrossed in flame From sea to sea, and high the lurid glare Shall rise in streams amid the gloomy clouds; And the great waters, laving on the flame Their boiling waves, shall feed its power ten times, And lend their vapors to the burning air. All things shall be consumed excepting man; And through the flames the righteous shall be led Unhurt, as though there were no flame; whereas The wicked shall of tortures be conceived More deep in power than ever known before. Then on His throne, mid glories so immense, The Judge in dreadful majesty appears, And looks in thrilling calm on all around. And on His brow sits equity enthroned, And truth and love united with it there; So radiant is His presence that, unveiled, The eye is dazzled which upon it dwells. He calls before Him all the people, and Discerns between the evil and the good Of all the deeds which they have done, and weighs Together in a balance, one in one, The evil and the good of all their thoughts, And all their words and mingled purposes. Then they to whom the balance falls to ill Their judgment thus receive: "Depart, depart Unto the burning lake, for ever fed. Ye would not hearken to the warning words, And now it is too late. Depart! depart!" Then to the hell eternal they and all The tortures of the world, and fears, and pains, And lust and anger, malice and disdain, And pride, and pomp, and every evil thought, Shall roll together, in a burning mass, Down deeper, deeper to the yawning gulphs. Thus all the mountains and great hills shall fly; And seas, and lakes, and rivers of the earth Shall vanish as a cloud before the wind; And He who was the Judge shall now ascend, Together with His chosen people, high Unto the heavenly gates, and, entering in, Shall have abode through day that knows no end In an Elysium of unmeasured joy.

THE SABBATH DAY.

Sweetest and fairest of the days that dawn Upon Elysian hill, and over lawn, And field, and city spread a roseate light! The morning of the Sabbath day--in dight Of many a hallowed strain it comes. The bell Of every village o'er the plain doth tell, From its high seat, within the sacred tower Above the house of God, from hour to hour, A joyous song; and in cathedral town The gladsome peals break forth and warble down; While through the city every belfrey gives A glad reply, which seems to say, "He lives! He lives!" The song of praise is heard ascend, Raised to the heavenly throne, in one to blend With angels' song, from many a cottage rung, Where on this day the father with his young Sits down in peace; while, in the pine grove down The rural glen, a myriad voices crown The clear-tuned solo of the warbling thrush, Or oft in chorus to a duet flush, Sung with the full-piped blackbird of the wood, Their notes are joined. The aspect and the mood Of everything is changed, as wont on day Of toil the crowded city moves to lay The bands of slumber for a time away, But brings not out the bustle and the din Which is her weekday aspect; and within Her walls a stilly peace prevails; the roar And noise of lumbering waggon comes no more Along the well-worn street, nor busy tread Of envoy, hurrying on, by duty led, To bank, or warehouse, or to court of law. The myriad sounds have ceased, which nature saw Were fit to wait upon the day of toil; Nor mendicant nor ballad beggar foil The sacred rest with their assiduous song. And round the factory door the noisy throng Forgets to come as on the other days; Aside her task the weary seamstress lays, Now from the close and foul-aired workroom free. The toilsome shop is closed, and also he Who for the week stood there doth taste the sweets Of liberty awhile; the penman meets No more the tiring scroll; and now in chain The prisoner sits within his dungeon, wan And weary; but he hears some soothing strain Break through the thick and iron-girded wall; And then the heavy shackles seem to fall From off his feet; a strange emotion fills His soul, and through his wasted body thrills, When of the bygone days he thinks in sweet And lingering thought; and then his eyes to meet The scanty rays are turned, and on his mind Awhile the captive fate forgets to find Its deepest force or weary sigh to send. Turn from the city, and to country lend A passing thought. All labor is at rest. The plough lies set, point in the mottled breast Of half-tilled field; the flail is laid above The barn's brown wall; the shining sickles move Not from their keep; the woodman's axe is still; The golden sheaf doth not the feeder fill; The huntsman's horn is hung behind the door; The delver's spade stands idle on the floor; The horse and oxen run the open field, Set free to graze; the holloaing drivers wield No whip or goad, and all the swain is free; The laborer walks abroad, and turns to see, With favoring look, the toilings of his hand, And fruits of labor rising from the land; The rustic lovers saunter in the fields, To talk of love and reap the joy it yields. The tower-clock now the worship-hour relates, And every church the worshipper awaits. Then thither come the cottar and his wife, (Once fair, now furrowed with the cares of life,) With sons and daughters; and, behind them near, The jovial farmer and his wife appear. Then comes the county squire; till the seats, One after one, are full. Then shortly meets The people's eager eye the tranquil face Of their beloved pastor, in his place. He kneels to God, and in deep fervour prays A sweet and powerful prayer; then he lays The open Bible down, and well expounds The message of the Saviour's love, till bounds, For truths so hallowed, every tending heart In joy. Then praise is sung; a ready part Takes every voice to raise a worthy song, Which breaks from seat to seat the aisle along. Then kneel the people by the throne of grace To take the blessing, ere they part to pace Again the world's besetting path. It falls Among them like as dew upon the palls Of parched flowers, to raise and nourish in The hour of need the vital spark within.

* * * * *

Sweetest and fairest, hallowed day of rest! "Peace" is thy banner and thy mottoed crest-- An open boon to all. The weary wait-- The weary wait and sigh to see the gate Of dawn admit thee forth in eastern sky. The merchant's daughter, as each morn goes by, Looks on the scenes without, and counts the days That fly--six, five, four, three, two, one--and lays A hopeful joy upon the day to come, When she shall by her father sit, and some Inspiring volume read, or, in a walk Through wood or vale, employ the time in talk, Sweet and instructively. The widow waits To see her son come home, and anxious gets When near the hour has drawn that she shall hear The step of her sole comforter draw near, With whom on earth she findeth sweetest joy. The orphans wait, and every night employ A time in prayer, that God be pleased to spare Their elder brother, and bestow him fair And happy days. They long the Sabbath day; For then he comes among them, and doth lay A cheerful spirit to the humble home; Pure and delicious truths he tells them from A flowing heart, and they all love him well. All people love the Sabbath--they who dwell In early years of innocence and joy, And they of lusty prime, whom cares employ A thousand snares to tangle or to stem. But more than all, the Sabbath is to them A day of sweet delight who totter near The precincts of the grave without a fear-- Yea, rather, with a joyous hope ere long To leave the weary ranks they now belong, Of feeble age, and, passing death's dark throng, Attain the kingdom of eternal song.

BEAUTY ADORNED.