Chapter X: Part THE FOURTH: CLXX (3)

When I remember all 15
The friends so linked together
I’ve seen around me fall
Like leaves in wintry weather,
I feel like one
Who treads alone 20
Some banquet-hall deserted,
Whose lights are fled,
Whose garlands dead,
And all but he departed!
Thus in the stilly night 25
Ere slumber’s chain has bound me,
Sad Memory brings the light
Of other days around me.
_Thomas Moore._

CCXXXI

_DIRGE._

If thou wilt ease thine heart
Of love, and all its smart--
Then sleep, dear, sleep!
And not a sorrow
Hang any tear on your eyelashes; 5
Lie still and deep,
Sad soul, until the sea-wave washes
The rim o’ the sun to-morrow
In Eastern sky.

But wilt thou cure thine heart 10
Of love, and all its smart--
Then die, dear, die!
’Tis deeper, sweeter,
Than on a rose-bank to lie dreaming
With folded eye; 15
And then alone, amid the beaming
Of love’s stars, thou’lt meet her
In Eastern sky.
_Thomas Lovell Beddoes._

CCXXXII

_LINES WRITTEN IN MY OWN ALBUM._

Fresh clad from heaven in robes of white,
A young probationer of light,
Thou wert, my soul, an album bright,

A spotless leaf; but thought, and care,
And friend and foe, in foul and fair, 5
Have ‘written strange defeatures’ there;

And Time with heaviest hand of all,
Like that fierce writing on the wall,
Hath stamped sad dates--he can’t recall.

And error, gilding worst designs-- 10
Like speckled snake that strays and shines--
Betrays his path by crooked lines;

And vice hath left his ugly blot;
And good resolves, a moment hot,
Fairly began--but finished not; 15

And fruitless, late remorse doth trace--
Like Hebrew lore a backward pace--
Her irrecoverable race.

Disjointed numbers; sense unknit;
Huge reams of folly; shreds of wit; 20
Compose the mingled mass of it.

My scalded eyes no longer brook
Upon this ink-blurred thing to look--
Go, shut the leaves, and clasp the book.
_Charles Lamb._

CCXXXIII

_SONNET._

October’s gold is dim--the forests rot,
The weary rain falls ceaseless, while the day
Is wrapt in damp. In mire of village-way
The hedgerow leaves are stampt, and, all forgot,
The broodless nest sits visible in the thorn. 5
Autumn, among her drooping marigolds,
Weeps all her garnered fields and empty folds
And dripping orchards, plundered and forlorn.
The season is a dead one, and I die!
No more, no more for me the spring shall make 10
A resurrection in the earth, and take
The death from out her heart--O God, I die!
The cold throat-mist creeps nearer, till I breathe
Corruption. Drop, stark night, upon my death!
_David Gray._

CCXXXIV

_SONNET._

Die down, O dismal day, and let me live;
And come, blue deeps, magnificently strewn
With coloured clouds--large, light, and fugitive--
By upper winds through pompous motions blown.
Now it is death in life--a vapour dense 5
Creeps round my window, till I cannot see
The far snow-shining mountains, and the glens
Shagging the mountain tops. O God! make free
This barren shackled earth, so deadly cold--
Breathe gently forth thy spring, till winter flies 10
In rude amazement, fearful and yet bold,
While she performs her customed charities.
I weigh the loaded hours till life is bare--
O God, for one clear day, a snowdrop, and sweet air!
_David Gray._

CCXXXV

_SONNET._

O Winter, wilt thou never, never, go?
O Summer, but I weary for thy coming,
Longing once more to hear the Luggie flow,
And frugal bees, laboriously humming.
Now the east wind diseases the infirm, 5
And I must crouch in comers from rough weather;
Sometimes a winter sunset is a charm--
When the fired clouds, compacted, blaze together,
And the large sun dips red behind the hills.
I, from my window, can behold this pleasure; 10
And the eternal moon, what time she fills
Her orb with argent, treading a soft measure,
With queenly motions of a bridal mood,
Through the white spaces of infinitude.
_David Gray._

CCXXXVI

_THE CHIMNEY-SWEEPER._

When my mother died I was very young,
And my father sold me while yet my tongue
Could scarcely cry, ‘’Weep! ’weep! ’weep! ’weep!’
So your chimneys I sweep, and in soot I sleep.

There’s little Tom Dacre, who cried when his head, 5
That curled like a lamb’s back, was shaved; so I said,
‘Hush, Tom! never mind it, for when your head’s bare,
You know that the soot cannot spoil your white hair.’

And so he was quiet, and that very night,
As Tom was a-sleeping, he had such a sight; 10
That thousands of sweepers, Dick, Joe, Ned, and Jack,
Were all of them locked up in coffins of black:

And by came an angel, who had a bright key,
And he opened the coffins, and set them all free;
Then down a green plain, leaping, laughing they run, 15
And wash in a river, and shine in the sun.

Then naked and white, all their bags left behind,
They rise upon clouds, and sport in the wind;
And the angel told Tom, if he’d be a good boy,
He’d have God for his Father, and never want joy. 20

And so Tom awoke, and we rose in the dark,
And got with our bags and our brushes to work;
Though the morning was cold, Tom was happy and warm:
So, if all do their duty, they need not fear harm.
_William Blake._

CCXXXVII

_TO THE MOON._

Art thou pale for weariness
Of climbing heaven, and gazing on the earth,
Wandering companionless,
Among the stars that have a different birth,--
And ever changing, like a joyless eye 5
That finds no object worth its constancy?
_Percy Bysshe Shelley._

CCXXXVIII

_SONG._

If I had thought thou could’st have died,
I might not weep for thee;
But I forgot, when by thy side,
That thou could’st mortal be.
It never through my mind had past 5
That time would e’er be o’er,
And I on thee should look my last,
And thou should’st smile no more!

And still upon that face I look,
And think ’twill smile again; 10
And still the thought I will not brook
That I must look in vain.
But when I speak thou dost not say,
What thou ne’er left’st unsaid;
And now I feel, as well I may, 15
Sweet Mary, thou art dead!

If thou would’st stay, e’en as thou art,
All cold, and all serene--
I still might press thy silent heart,
And where thy smiles have been! 20
While e’en thy chill, bleak corse I have,
Thou seemest still mine own;
But there--I lay thee in thy grave,
And I am now alone!

I do not think, where’er thou art, 25
Thou hast forgotten me;
And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart,
In thinking still of thee:
Yet there was round thee such a dawn
Of light ne’er seen before, 30
As fancy never could have drawn,
And never can restore!
_Charles Wolfe._

CCXXXIX

_ON ANOTHER’S SORROW._

Can I see another’s woe,
And not be in sorrow too?
Can I see another’s grief,
And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear, 5
And not feel my sorrow’s share?
Can a father see his child
Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear
An infant groan, an infant fear? 10
No, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

And can He, who smiles on all,
Hear the wren, with sorrows small,
Hear the small bird’s grief and care, 15
Hear the woes that infants bear?

And not sit beside the nest,
Pouring pity in their breast?
And not sit the cradle near,
Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 20

And not sit both night and day,
Wiping all our tears away?
Oh, no! never can it be!
Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all: 25
He becomes an infant small,
He becomes a man of woe,
He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh,
And thy Maker is not by: 30
Think not thou canst weep a tear,
And thy Maker is not near.

Oh! He gives to us his joy,
That our griefs He may destroy:
Till our grief is fled and gone 35
He doth sit by us and moan.
_William Blake._

CCXL

_A DEAD ROSE._

O Rose, who dares to name thee?
No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet,
But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,--
Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee 5
Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away
An odour up the lane to last all day,--
If breathing now, unsweetened would forgo thee.

The sun that used to smite thee,
And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, 10
Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,--
If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee,
And, white first, grow incarnadined because
It lay upon thee where the crimson was,-- 15
If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.

The fly that ’lit upon thee,
To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet
Along thy leafs pure edges after heat,--
If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. 20

The bee that once did suck thee,
And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive,
And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,--
If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee, 25
Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet,
Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete,
Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee
More love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold 30
Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold:--
Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee!
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

CCXLI

_AT THE CHURCH GATE._

Although I enter not,
Yet round about the spot
Ofttimes I hover;
And near the sacred gate
With longing eyes I wait, 5
Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out
Above the city’s rout,
And noise and humming:
They’ve hushed the Minster bell: 10
The organ ’gins to swell:
She’s coming, she’s coming!

My lady comes at last,
Timid, and stepping fast,
And hastening hither, 15
With modest eyes downcast:
She comes--she’s here--she’s past--
May Heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint!
Pour out your praise or plaint 20
Meekly and duly;
I will not enter there,
To sully your pure prayer
With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace 25
Round the forbidden place,
Lingering a minute,
Like outcast spirits who wait
And see through Heaven’s gate
Angels within it. 30
_William Makepeace Thackeray._

CCXLII

_ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN._

I saw where in the shroud did lurk
A curious frame of Nature’s work;
A floweret crushèd in the bud,
A nameless piece of Babyhood,
Was in her cradle-coffin lying; 5
Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying:
So soon to’ exchange the imprisoning womb
For darker closets of the tomb!
She did but ope an eye, and put
A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 10
For the long dark: ne’er more to see
Through glasses of mortality.
Riddle of destiny, who can show,
What thy short visit meant, or know
What thy errand here below? 15
Shall we say, that Nature blind
Checked her hand, and changed her mind
Just when she had exactly wrought
A finished, pattern without fault?
Could she flag, or could she tire, 20
Or lacked she the Promethean fire
(With her nine moons’ long workings sickened)
That should thy little limbs have quickened?
Limbs so firm, they seemed to’ assure
Life of health, and days mature: 25
Woman’s self in miniature!
Limbs so fair, they might supply
(Themselves now but cold imagery)
The sculptor to make Beauty by.
Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 30
That babe or mother, one must die;
So in mercy left the stock,
And cut the branch; to save the shock
Of young years widowed, and the pain
When Single State comes back again 35
To the lone man who, reft of wife,
Thenceforward drags a maimèd life?
The economy of Heaven is dark,
And wisest clerks have missed the mark
Why human buds, like this, should fall 40
More brief than fly ephemeral
That has his day; while shrivelled crones
Stiffen with age to stocks and stones;
And crabbèd use the conscience sears
In sinners of an hundred years. 45
--Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss,
Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss:
Rites, which custom does impose,
Silver bells, and baby clothes;
Coral redder than those lips 50
Which pale death did late eclipse;
Music framed for infant’s glee,
Whistle never tuned for thee;
Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them,
Loving hearts were they which gave them. 55
Let not one be missing; nurse,
See them laid upon the hearse
Of infant slain by doom perverse.
Why should kings and nobles have
Pictured trophies to their grave, 60
And we, churls, to thee deny
Thy pretty toys with thee to lie--
A more harmless vanity?
_Charles Lamb._

CCXLIII

_ON THE SAME._

Child of a day, thou knowest not
The tears that overflow thine urn,
The gushing eyes that read thy lot;
Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return!

And why the wish! the pure and blest 5
Watch like thy mother o’er thy sleep:
O peaceful night! O envied rest!
Thou wilt not ever see her weep.
_Walter Savage Landor._

CCXLIV

_FIRE._

Sweet Maiden, for so calm a life
Too bitter seemed thine end;
But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife,
A more than earthly Friend.

We miss thee in thy place at school, 5
And on thine homeward way,
Where violets by the reedy pool
Peep out so shyly gay:

Where thou, a true and gentle guide,
Wouldst lead thy little band, 10
With all an elder sister’s pride,
And rule with eye and hand.

And if _we_ miss, oh, who may speak
What thoughts are hovering round The
pallet where thy fresh young cheek 15
Its evening slumber found?

How many a tearful longing look
In silence seeks thee yet,
Where in its own familiar nook
Thy fireside chair is set? 20

And oft when little voices dim
Are feeling for the note
In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn,
And wavering wildly float,

Comes gushing o’er a sudden thought 25
Of her who led the strain,
How oft such music home she brought--
But ne’er shall bring again.

O say not so! the springtide air
Is fraught with whisperings sweet; 30
Who knows but heavenly carols there
With ours may duly meet?

Who knows how near, each holy hour,
The pure and child-like dead
May linger, where in shrine or bower 35
The mourner’s prayer is said?

And He who willed thy tender frame
(O stern yet sweet decree!)
Should wear the martyr’s robe of flame,
He hath prepared for thee 40

A garland in that region bright
Where infant spirits reign, Tinged
faintly with such golden light
As crowns his martyr train.

Nay doubt it not: his tokens sure 45
Were round her death-bed shown:
The wasting pain might not endure,
’Twas calm ere life had flown,

Even as we read of Saints of yore:
Her heart and voice were free 50
To crave one quiet slumber more
Upon her mother’s knee.
_John Keble._

CCXLV

_ON BEING PRESSED TO GO TO A MASQUED BALL NOT MANY MONTHS AFTER THE
DEATH OF MY CHILD._

Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train,
With faltering step and faded brow;
She such a votary would disdain,
And such a homage disavow.

But art thou sure the goddess leads 5
Yon motley group that onward press?
Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes,
Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.

When last I saw _her_ smile serene,
And spread her soft enchantments wide, 10
My lovely child adorned the scene,
And sported by the flowing tide.

The fairest shells for me to seek,
Intent the little wanderer strayed;
The rose that blossomed on his cheek 15
Still deepening as the breezes played.

Exulting in his form and face,
Through the bright veil that beauty wove,
How did my heart delight to trace
A soul--all harmony and love! 20

Fair as the dreams by fancy given,
A model of unearthly grace;
Whene’er he raised his eyes to heaven,
He seemed to seek his native place.

More lovely than the morning ray, 25
His brilliant form of life and light
Through strange gradations of decay
In sad succession shocked my sight.

And since that agonizing hour,
That sowed the seed of mourning years, 30
Beauty has lost its cheering power,
I see it through a mother’s tears.

Soon was my dream of bliss o’ercast,
And all the dear illusion o’er;
A few dark days of terror past, 35
And joy and Frederick bloom no more.
_Melesina Trench._

CCXLVI

_THE DEATH BED._

We watched her breathing through the night,
Her breathing soft and low,
As in her breast the wave of life
Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak, 5
So slowly moved about,
As we had lent her half our powers,
To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears,
Our fears our hopes belied; 10
We thought her dying when she slept,
And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad,
And chill with early showers,
Her quiet eyelids closed--she had 15
Another morn than ours.
_Thomas Hood._

CCXLVII

_LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE._

Methinks it is good to be here;
If Thou wilt, let us build--but for whom?
Nor Elias nor Moses appear,
But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom,
The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 5

Shall we build to Ambition? oh, no!
Affrighted, he shrinketh away;
For see! they would pin him below,
In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay,
To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 10

To Beauty? ah, no!--she forgets
The charms which she wielded before--
Nor knows the foul worm that he frets
The skin which but yesterday fools could adore,
For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 15

Shall we build to the purple of Pride--
The trappings which dizen the proud?
Alas! they are all laid aside;
And here’s neither dress nor adornment allowed,
But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. 20

To Riches? alas! ’tis in vain;
Who hid, in their turns have been hid:
The treasures are squandered again;
And here in the grave are all metals forbid,
But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. 25

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford--
The revel, the laugh, and the jeer?
Ah! here is a plentiful board!
But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer,
And none but the worm is a reveller here. 30

Shall we build to Affection and Love?
Ah, no! they have withered and died,
Or fled with the spirit above;
Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side,
Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 35

Unto Sorrow?--The dead cannot grieve;
Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear,
Which compassion itself could relieve!
Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear--
Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here! 40

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow?
Ah, no! for his empire is known,
And here there are trophies enow!
Beneath--the cold dead, and around--the dark stone,
Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown! 45

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build,
And look for the sleepers around us to rise;
The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled;
And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice,
Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. 50
_Herbert Knowles._

CCXLVIII

_TIME._

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years,
Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe
Are brackish with the salt of human tears!
Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow
Claspest the limits of mortality! 5
And sick of prey, yet howling on for more,
Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore;
Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm,
Who shall put forth on thee,
Unfathomable Sea? 10
_Percy Bysshe Shelley._

CCXLIX

_SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND._

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps,
And lovers are round her sighing;
But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps,
For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 5
Every note which he loved awaking;--
Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains,
How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died,
They were all that to life had entwined him; 10
Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried,
Nor long will his Love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest,
When they promise a glorious morrow; 14
They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West,
From her own loved island of sorrow.
_Thomas Moore._

CCL

_THE LAST MAN._

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom,
The sun himself must die,
Before this mortal shall assume
Its immortality!
I saw a vision in my sleep, 5
That gave my spirit strength to sweep
Adown the gulf of Time!
I saw the last of human mould,
That shall Creation’s death behold,
As Adam saw her prime! 10

The sun’s eye had a sickly glare,
The earth with age was wan,
The skeletons of nations were
Around that lonely man!
Some had expired in fight,--the brands 15
Still rusted in their bony hands;
In plague and famine some!
Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread;
And ships were drifting with the dead
To shores where all was dumb! 20

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood,
With dauntless words and high,
That shook the sere leaves from the wood,
As if a storm passed by--
Saying, We’ are twins in death, proud Sun, 25
Thy face is cold, thy race is run,
’Tis mercy bids thee go;
For thou ten thousand thousand years
Hast seen the tide of human tears,
That shall no longer flow. 30

What though beneath thee man put forth
His pomp, his pride, his skill;
And arts that made fire, flood, and earth,
The vassals of his will;--
Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 35
Thou dim discrownèd king of day;
For all those trophied arts
And triumphs that beneath thee sprang,
Healed not a passion or a pang
Entailed on human hearts. 40

Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall
Upon the stage of men,
Nor with thy rising beams recall
Life’s tragedy again.
Its piteous pageants bring not back, 45
Nor waken flesh upon the rack
Of pain anew to writhe;
Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred,
Or mown in battle by the sword,
Like grass beneath the scythe. 50

Even I am weary in yon skies
To watch thy fading fire;
Test of all sumless agonies,
Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-- 55
Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath
To see thou shalt not boast.
The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,--
The majesty of darkness shall
Receive my parting ghost! 60

This spirit shall return to Him
Who gave its heavenly spark;
Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim,
When thou thyself art dark!
No! it shall live again, and shine, 65
In bliss unknown to beams of thine,
By Him recalled to breath,
Who captive led captivity,
Who robbed the grave of victory,
And took the sting from death! 70

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up
On nature’s awful waste,
To drink this last and bitter cup
Of grief that man shall taste--
Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 75
Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race,
On earth’s sepulchral clod,
The darkening universe defy
To quench his immortality,
Or shake his trust in God! 80
_Thomas Campbell._

CCLI

_ROSE AYLMER._

Ah! what avails the sceptred race,
Ah! what the form divine!
What every virtue, every grace!
Rose Aylmer, all were thine.
Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 5
May weep, but never see,
A night of memories and of sighs
I consecrate to thee.
_Walter Savage Landor._

CCLII

_THE SPRING OF THE YEAR._

Gone were but the winter cold,
And gone were but the snow,
I could sleep in the wild woods
Where primroses blow.

Cold’s the snow at my head, 5
And cold at my feet;
And the finger of death’s at my een,
Closing them to sleep.

Let none tell my father,
Or my mother so dear,-- 10
I’ll meet them both in heaven
At the spring of the year.
_Allan Cunningham._

CCLIII

_BURIAL OF THE DEAD._

I thought to meet no more, so dreary seemed
Death’s interposing veil, and thou so pure,
Thy place in Paradise
Beyond where I could soar;

Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts 5
Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,
Where patiently thou tak’st
Thy sweet and sure repose.

The shadows fall more soothing, the soft air
Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; 10
While Memory, by thy grave,
Lives o’er thy funeral day;

The deep knell dying down; the mourners’ pause,
Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate;
Sure with the words of Heaven 15
Thy spirit met us there,

And sought with us along the accustomed way
The hallowed porch, and entering in beheld
The pageant of sad joy,
So dear to Faith and Hope. 20

Oh, hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise
To cheer us, happy soul! thou hadst not touched
The sacred springs of grief
More tenderly and true,

Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low, 25
Low as the grave, high as the eternal Throne,
Guiding through light and gloom
Our mourning fancies wild,

Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve
Around the western twilight, all subside 30
Into a placid Faith,
That e’en with beaming eye

Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall:
So many relics of a frail love lost,
So many tokens dear 35
Of endless love begun.

Listen! it is no dream: the Apostle’s trump
Gives earnest of the Archangel’s: calmly now,
Our hearts yet beating high
To that victorious lay, 40

Most like a warrior’s, to the martial dirge
Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust
Our treasure for a while;
And if a tear steal down,

If human anguish o’er the shaded brow 45
Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth
Touches the coffin-lid;
If at our brother’s name

Once and again the thought, ‘For ever gone,’
Comes o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright, 50
Thou turnest not away,
Thou know’st us calm at heart.

One look, and we have seen our last of thee,
Till we too sleep, and our long sleep be o’er:
O cleanse us, ere we view 55
That countenance pure again,

Thou, who canst change the heart and raise the dead!
As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour,
Be ready when we meet
With thy dear pardoning words. 60
_John Keble._

CCLIV

_THE SLEEP._

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the Psalmist’s music deep,
Now tell me if that any is
For gift or grace surpassing this-- 5
‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep’?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero’s heart to be unmoved,
The poet’s star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot’s voice to teach and rouse, 10
The monarch’s crown to light the brows?--
He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?
A little faith all undisproved,
A little dust to overweep, 15
And bitter memories to make
The whole earth blasted for our sake:
He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

‘Sleep soft, beloved!’ we sometimes say,
Who have no tune to charm away 20
Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again
Shall break the happy slumber, when
He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises! 25
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delvèd gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o’er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth his belovèd, sleep. 30

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,
Though on its slope men sow and reap:
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead, 35
He giveth his belovèd, sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man,
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;
But angels say, and through the word 40
I think their happy smile is heard,--
‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’

For me, my heart that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,
That sees through tears the mummers leap, 45
Would now its wearied vision close,
Would childlike on his love repose,
Who giveth his belovèd, sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be
That this low breath is gone from me, 50
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let one, most loving of you all,
Say, ‘Not a tear must o’er her fall!
‘He giveth his belovèd, sleep.’
_Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

CCLV

_TO THE MEMORY OF MY VENERABLE GRANDFATHER-IN-LAW, SAMUEL MARTIN,
WHO WAS TAKEN FROM US IN THE SIXTY-EIGHTH YEAR OF HIS MINISTRY._

Fare well man’s dark last journey o’er the deep,
Thou sire of sires! whose bow in strength hath stood
These threescore years and ten, that thou hast wooed
Men’s souls to heaven. In Jesus fall’n asleep,
Around thy couch three generations weep, 5
Reared on thy knees with wisdom’s heavenly food,
And by thy counsels taught to choose the good;
Who in thy footsteps press up Zion’s steep,
To reach that temple which but now did ope
And let their father in. O’er _his_ bier wake 10
No doleful strain, but high the note of hope
And praise uplift to God, who did him make
A faithful shepherd, of his Church a prop;
And of his seed did faithful shepherds take.
_Edward Irving._

CCLVI

_THE EVENING CLOUD._

A cloud lay cradled near the setting sun;
A gleam of crimson tinged its braided snow;
Long had I watched the glory moving on,
O’er the still radiance of the lake below;
Tranquil its spirit seemed and floated slow; 5
Even in its very motion there was rest;
While every breath of eve that chanced to blow
Wafted the traveller to the beauteous West.
Emblem, methought, of the departed soul!
To whose white robe the gleam of bliss is given; 10
And by the breath of mercy made to roll
Right onward to the golden gates of heaven;
Where to the eye of Faith it peaceful lies,
And tells to man his glorious destinies.
_John Wilson._

CCLVII

_NIGHT AND DEATH._

Mysterious Night! when our first parent knew
Thee from report divine, and heard thy name,
Did he not tremble for this lovely frame,
This glorious canopy of light and blue?
Yet ’neath a curtain of translucent dew, 5
Bathed in the rays of the great setting flame,
Hesperus with the host of heaven came,
And lo! creation widened in man’s view.
Who could have thought such darkness lay concealed
Within thy beams, O sun! or who could find, 10
Whilst fly, and leaf, and insect stood revealed,
That to such countless orbs thou mad’st us blind!
Why do we then shun death with anxious strife?
If light can thus deceive, wherefore not life?
_Blanco White._