Chapter 13

To him who, in the love of Nature, holds Communion with her visible forms, she speaks A various language: for his gayer hours She has a voice of gladness, and a smile And eloquence of beauty; and she glides Into his darker musings with a mild And healing sympathy, that steals away Their sharpness, ere he is aware. When thoughts Of the last bitter hour come like a blight Over thy spirit, and sad images Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall, And breathless darkness, and the narrow house, Make thee to shudder, and grow sick at heart, Go forth under the open sky, and list To Nature's teachings, while from all around-- Earth and her waters, and the depths of air-- Comes a still voice:--Yet a few days, and thee The all-beholding sun shall see no more In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground, Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears, Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again; And, lost each human trace, surrendering up Thine individual being, shalt thou go To mix forever with the elements; To be a brother to the insensible rock, And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak Shall send his roots abroad, and pierce thy mold. Yet not to thine eternal resting-place Shalt thou retire alone,--nor couldst thou wish Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down With patriarchs of the infant world,--with kings, The powerful of the earth,--the wise, the good, Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past, All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills, Rock-ribbed, and ancient as the sun; the vales Stretching in pensive quietness between; The venerable woods; rivers that move In majesty, and the complaining brooks, That make the meadows green; and, poured round all, Old ocean's gray and melancholy waste,-- Are but the solemn decorations all Of the great tomb of man! The golden sun, The planets, all the infinite host of heaven, Are shining on the sad abodes of death, Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread The globe are but a handful to the tribes That slumber in its bosom. Take the wings Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness, Or lose thyself in the continuous woods Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound Save his own dashings,--yet the dead are there! And millions in those solitudes, since first The flight of years began, have laid them down In their last sleep,--the dead reign there alone! So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw In silence from the living, and no friend Take note of thy departure? All that breathe Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care Plod on, and each one, as before, will chase His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave Their mirth and their employments, and shall come And make their bed with thee. As the long train Of ages glide away, the sons of men-- The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes In the full strength of years, matron and maid, And the sweet babe, and the gray-headed man-- Shall, one by one, be gathered to thy side By those who in their turn shall follow them.

So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan that moves To the pale realms of shade, where each shall take His chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave Like one who wraps the drappery of his conch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.

WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.

A MORNING THOUGHT.

What if some morning, when the stars were paling, And the dawn whitened, and the east was clear, Strange peace and rest fell on me from the presence Of a benignant spirit standing near;

And I should tell him, as he stood beside me:-- "This is our earth--most friendly earth, and fair; Daily its sea and shore through sun and shadow Faithful it turns, robed in its azure air;

"There is blest living here, loving and serving, And quest of truth, and serene friendships dear: But stay not, Spirit! Earth has one destroyer-- His name is Death: flee, lest he find thee here!"

And what if then, while the still morning brightened, And freshened in the elm the summer's breath, Should gravely smile on me the gentle angel, And take my hand and say, "My name is Death"?

EDWARD ROWLAND SILL.

NOW AND AFTERWARDS.

"Two hands upon the breast, and labor is past." --RUSSIAN PROVERB.

"Two hands upon the breast, And labor's done; Two pale feet crossed in rest,-- The race is won; Two eyes with coin-weights shut, And all tears cease; Two lips where grief is mute, Anger at peace:" So pray we oftentimes, mourning our lot; God in his kindness answereth not.

"Two hands to work addrest Aye for his praise; Two feet that never rest Walking his ways; Two eyes that look above Through all their tears; Two lips still breathing love, Not wrath, nor fears:" So pray we afterwards, low on our knees; Pardon those erring prayers! Father, hear these!

DINAH MARIA MULOCK CRAIK

THE GRAVE OF SOPHOCLES.

Tenderly, ivy, on Sophocles' grave--right tenderly--twine Garlanding over the mound network of delicate green.

Everywhere flourish the flower of the rose, and the clustering vine Pour out its branches around, wet with their glistering sheen.

All for the sake of the wisdom and grace it was his to combine; Priest of the gay and profound, sweetest of singers terrene.

From the Greek of SIMMIAS. Translation of WILLIAM M. HAUDINGE.

INSCRIPTION ON MELROSE ABBEY.

The earth goes on the earth glittering in gold, The earth goes to the earth sooner than it wold; The earth builds on the earth castles and towers, The earth says to the earth--All this is ours.

ON THE TOMBS IN WESTMINSTER ABBEY.

Mortality, behold and fear What a change of flesh is here! Think how many royal bones Sleep within these heaps of stones; Here they lie, had realms and lands, Who now want strength to stir their hands, Where from their pulpits sealed with dust They preach, "In greatness is no trust." Here's an acre sown indeed With the richest royallest seed That the earth did e'er suck in Since the first man died for sin: Here the bones of birth have cried "Though gods they were, as men they died!" Here are sands, ignoble things, Dropt from the ruined sides of kings: Here's a world of pomp and state Buried in dust, once dead by fate.

FRANCIS BEAUMONT.

ELEGY WRITTEN IN A COUNTRY CHURCHYARD.

The curfew tolls the knell of parting day, The lowing herd wind slowly o'er the lea, The ploughman homeward plods his weary way, And leaves the world to darkness and to me.

Now fades the glimmering landscape on the sight. And all the air a solemn stillness holds, Save where the beetle wheels his droning flight, And drowsy tinklings lull the distant folds:

Save that, from yonder ivy-mantled tower, The moping owl does to the moon complain Of such as, wandering near her secret bower, Molest her ancient solitary reign.

[Hark! how the holy calm that breathes around Bids every fierce tumultuous passion cease; In still small accents whispering from the ground The grateful earnest of eternal peace.][8]

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade. Where heaves the turf in many a moldering heap, Each in his narrow cell forever laid, The rude forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn, The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed, The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn, No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burn, Or busy housewife ply her evening care; No children run to lisp their sire's return, Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield, Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke; How jocund did they drive their team afield! How bowed the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not ambition mock their useful toil, Their homely joys, and destiny obscure; Nor grandeur hear with a disdainful smile The short and simple annals of the poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power, And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave, Awaits alike the inevitable hour. The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye proud, impute to these the fault, If Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise, Where, through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault, The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bust: Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath? Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust, Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laid; Some heart once pregnant with celestial fire; Hands, that the rod of empire might have swayed, Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre;

But knowledge to their eyes her ample page, Rich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll; Chill penury repressed their noble rage, And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray serene; The dark, unfathomed caves of ocean bear; Full many a flower is born to blush unseen, And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village Hampden, that, with dauntless breast, The little tryant of his fields withstood, Some mute, inglorious Milton here may rest, Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of listening senates to command, The threats of pain and ruin to despise, To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land, And read their history in a nation's eyes,

Their lot forbade: nor circumscribed alone Their growing virtues, but their crimes confined; Forbade to wade through slaughter to a throne, And shut the gates of mercy on mankind,

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide, To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame, Or heap the shrine of luxury and pride With incense kindled at the muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strife, Their sober wishes never learned to stray; Along the cool sequestered vale of life They kept the noiseless tenor of their way.

Yet even these bones from insult to protect, Some frail memorial still erected nigh, With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture decked, Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by th' unlettered muse, The place of fame and elegy supply; And many a holy text around she strews, That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey, This pleasing anxious being e'er resigned, Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day, Nor cast one longing lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies, Some pious drops the closing eye requires; E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries, E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonored dead, Dost in these lines their artless tale relate, If chance, by lonely contemplation led, Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say, "Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn Brushing with hasty steps the dews away, To meet the sun upon the upland lawn.

"There at the foot of yonder nodding beech, That wreathes its old, fantastic roots so high, His listless length at noontide would he stretch, And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

"Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn, Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove; Now drooping, woful-wan, like one forlorn. Or crazed with care, or crossed in hopeless love.

"One morn I missed him on the customed hill, Along the heath, and near his favorite tree; Another came; nor yet beside the rill, Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

"The next, with dirges due in sad array, Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne. Approach and read (for thou canst read) the lay Graved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn."

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of Earth A youth to Fortune and to Fame unknown; Fair Science frowned not on his humble birth, And Melancholy marked him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere, Heaven did a recompense as largely send; He gave to Misery all he had, a tear, He gained from Heaven ('t was all he wished) a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose, Or draw his frailties from their dread abode, (There they alike in trembling hope repose) The bosom of his Father and his God.

THOMAS GRAY.

[8] Removed by the author from the original poem.

GOD'S-ACRE.

I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom mingle its perfume With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

No abbey's gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops, No winding torches paint the midnight air; Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops Along the modest pathways, and those fair Pale asters of the season spread their plumes Around this field, fit garden for our tombs.

And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell Slow stealing o'er thy heart in this calm place, Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell, But in its kind and supplicating grace, It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more Friend to the friendless than thou wast before;

Learn from the loved one's rest serenity: To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound, And thou repose beneath the whispering tree, One tribute more to this submissive ground;-- Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride, Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride:

Rather to those ascents of being turn, Where a ne'er-setting sun illumes the year Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,-- Forget man's littleness, deserve the best, God's mercy in thy thought and life confest.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD.

Four straight brick walls, severely plain, A quiet city square surround; A level space of nameless graves,-- The Quakers' burial-ground.

In gown of gray, or coat of drab, They trod the common ways of life, With passions held in sternest leash, And hearts that knew not strife.

To yon grim meeting-house they fared, With thoughts as sober as their speech, To voiceless prayer, to songless praise, To hear the elders preach.

Through quiet lengths of days they came, With scarce a change to this repose; Of all life's loveliness they took The thorn without the rose.

But in the porch and o'er the graves, Glad rings the southward robin's glee, And sparrows fill the autumn air With merry mutiny;

While on the graves of drab and gray The red and gold of autumn lie, And wilful Nature decks the sod In gentlest mockery.

SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.

GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

How calm they sleep beneath the shade Who once were weary of the strife, And bent, like us, beneath the load Of human life!

The willow hangs with sheltering grace And benediction o'er their sod, And Nature, hushed, assures the soul They rest in God.

O weary hearts, what rest is here, From all that curses yonder town! So deep the peace, I almost long To lay me down.

For, oh, it will be blest to sleep, Nor dream, nor move, that silent night, Till wakened in immortal strength And heavenly light!

CRAMMOND KENNEDY.

THE DEAD.

The dead abide with us! Though stark and cold Earth seems to grip them, they are with us still: They have forged our chains of being for good or ill; And their invisible hands these hands yet hold. Our perishable bodies are the mould In which their strong imperishable will-- Mortality's deep yearning to fulfil-- Hath grown incorporate through dim time untold. Vibrations infinite of life in death, As a star's travelling light survives its star! So may we hold our lives, that when we are The fate of those who then will draw this breath, They shall not drag us to their judgment-bar, And curse the heritage which we bequeath.

MATHILDE BLIND.

ON A GRAVE AT GRINDELWALD.

Here let us leave him; for his shroud the snow, For funeral-lamps he has the planets seven, For a great sign the icy stair shall go Between the heights to heaven.

One moment stood he as the angels stand, High in the stainless eminence of air; The next, he was not, to his fatherland Translated unaware.

FREDERIC WILLIAM HENRY MYERS.

THE EMIGRANT LASSIE.

As I came wandering down Glen Spean, Where the braes are green and grassy, With my light step I overtook A weary-footed lassie.

She had one bundle on her back, Another in her hand, And she walked as one who was full loath To travel from the land.

Quoth I, "My bonnie lass!"--for she Had hair of flowing gold, And dark brown eyes, and dainty limbs, Right pleasant to behold--

"My bonnie lass, what aileth thee, On this bright summer day, To travel sad and shoeless thus Upon the stony way?

"I'm fresh and strong, and stoutly shod, And thou art burdened so; March lightly now, and let me bear The bundles as we go."

"No, no!" she said, "that may not be; What's mine is mine to bear; Of good or ill, as God may will, I take my portioned share."

"But you have two, and I have none; One burden give to me; I'll take that bundle from thy back That heavier seems to be.

"No, no!" she said; "_this_, if you will, _That_ holds--no hand but mine May bear its weight from dear Glen Spean 'Cross the Atlantic brine!"

"Well, well! but tell me what may be Within that precious load, Which thou dost bear with such fine care Along the dusty road?

"Belike it is some present rare From friend in parting hour; Perhaps, as prudent maidens wont, Thou tak'st with thee thy dower"

She drooped her head, and with her hand She gave a mournful wave: "Oh, do not jest, dear sir!--it is Turf from my mother's grave!"

I spoke no word: we sat and wept By the road-side together; No purer dew on that bright day Was dropped upon the heather.

JOHN STUART BLACKIE.

THE OLD SEXTON.

Nigh to a grave that was newly made, Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade; His work was done, and he paused to wait The funeral train at the open gate. A relic of bygone days was he, And his locks were white as the foamy sea; And these words came from his lips so thin: "I gather them in: I gather them in.

"I gather them in! for man and boy, Year after year of grief and joy, I 've builded the houses that lie around, In every nook of this burial ground; Mother and daughter, father and son, Come to my solitude, one by one: But come they strangers or come they kin-- I gather them in, I gather them in.

"Many are with me, but still I'm alone, I'm king of the dead--and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold; And my sceptre of rule is the spade I hold: Come they from cottage or come they from hall, Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! Let them loiter in pleasure or toilfully spin-- I gather them in, I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their-final rest Is here, down here, in earth's dark breast!" And the sexton ceased, for the funeral train Wound mutely o'er that solemn plain! And I said to my heart, when time is told, A mightier voice than that sexton's old Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din-- "I gather them in, I gather them in."

PARK BENJAMIN.

THE FIRST SNOW-FALL.

The snow had begun in the gloaming, And busily all the night Had been heaping field and highway With a silence deep and white. Every pine and fir and hemlock Wore ermine too dear for an earl, And the poorest twig on the elm-tree Was ridged inch deep with pearl.

From sheds new-roofed with Carrara Came Chanticleer's muffled crow. The stiff rails were softened to swan's-down, And still fluttered down the snow.

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky, And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood; How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?" And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden sky That arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remember the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow, Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all, Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not know That _my_ kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

JAMES RUSSELL LOWELL.

THE MORNING-GLORY.

We wreathed about our darling's head The morning-glory bright; Her little face looked out beneath So full of life and light, So lit as with a sunrise, That we could only say, "She is the morning-glory true, And her poor types are they."

So always from that happy time We called her by their name, And very fitting did it seem,-- For sure as morning came, Behind her cradle bars she smiled To catch the first faint ray, As from the trellis smiles the flower And opens to the day.

But not so beautiful they rear Their airy cups of blue, As turned her sweet eyes to the light, Brimmed with sleep's tender dew; And not so close their tendrils fine Round their supports are thrown, As those dear arms whose outstretched plea Clasped all hearts to her own.

We used to think how she had come, Even as comes the flower, The last and perfect added gift To crown Love's morning hour; And how in her was imaged forth The love we could not say, As on the little dewdrops round Shines back the heart of day.

We never could have thought, O God, That she must wither up, Almost before a day was flown, Like the morning-glory's cup; We never thought to see her droop Her fair and noble head, Till she lay stretched before our eyes, Wilted, and cold, and dead!

The morning-glory's blossoming Will soon be coming round,-- We see their rows of heart-shaped leaves Upspringing from the ground; The tender things the winter killed Renew again their birth, But the glory of our morning Has passed away from earth.

Earth! in vain our aching eyes Stretch over thy green plain! Too harsh thy dews, too gross thine air, Her spirit to sustain; But up in groves of Paradise Full surely we shall see Our morning-glory beautiful Twine round our dear Lord's knee.

MARIA WHITE LOWELL.

THE WIDOW'S MITE.

A widow--she had only one! A puny and decrepit son; But, day and night, Though fretful oft, and weak and small, A loving child, he was her all-- The Widow's Mite.

The Widow's Mite--ay, so sustained, She battled onward, nor complained, Though friends were fewer: And while she toiled for daily fare, A little crutch upon the stair Was music to her.

I saw her then,--and now I see That, though resigned and cheerful, she Has sorrowed much: She has, He gave it tenderly, Much faith; and carefully laid by, The little crutch.

FREDERICK LOCKER-LAMPSON.

ARE THE CHILDREN AT HOME?