Death
Beneath the endless surges of the deep,
Whose green content o'erlaps them ever-more,
A host of mariners perpetual sleep,
Too hushed to heed the wild commotion's roar;
The emerald weeds glide softly o'er their bones,
And wash them gently 'mid the rounded stones.
No epitaph have they to tell their tale,
Their birth-place, age, and story all are lost,
Yet rest they deeply, as within the vale
Those sheltered bodies by the smooth slates crost;
And countless tribes of men lie on the hills,
And human blood runs in the crystal rills,
The air is full of men, who once enjoyed
The healthy element, nor looked beyond;
Many, who all their mortal strength employed
In human kindness, of their brothers fond,
And many more who counteracted fate
And battled in the strife of common hate.
Profoundest sleep enwraps them all around,
Sages and sire, the child, and manhood strong;
Shed not one tear; expend no sorrowing sound,
Tune thy clear voice to no funereal song;
For O death stands to welcome thee sure,
And life hath in its breath a steeper mystery.
I hear a bell that tolls an empty note,
The mourning anthem, and the sobbing prayer;
A grave fresh-opened, where the friends devote
To mouldering darkness a still corpse, once fair
And beautiful as morning's silver light,
And stars which throw their clear fire on the night;
She is not here who smiled within these eyes
Warmer than spring's first sunbeam through the pale
And tearful air, — resist these flatteries; —
O lay her silently alone, and in this vale
Shall the sweet winds sing better dirge for her,
And the fine early flowers her death-clothes minister.
O Death! thou art the palace of our hopes,
The storehouse of our joys, great labor's end,
Thou art the bronzed key which swiftly opes
The coffers of the past; and thou shalt send
Such trophies to our hearts, as sunny days
When life upon its golden harpstring plays.
And when a nation mourns a silent voice,
That long entranced its ear with melody,
How must thou in thy inmost soul rejoice,
To wrap such treasure in thy boundless sea;
And thou wert dignified if but one soul
Had been enfolded in thy twilight stole.
Triumphal arches circle o'er thy deep,
Dazzling with jewels, radiant with content;
In thy vast arms the sons of genius sleep,
The carvings of thy spheral monument,
Bearing no recollection of dim time,
Within thy green, and most perennial prime.
And might I sound a thought of thy decree,
How lapsed the dreary earth in fragrant pleasure,
And hummed along o'er life's contracted sea
Like the swift petrel, mimicking the wave's measure;
But though I long, the sounds will never come,
For in thy majesty my lesser voice is dumb.
Thou art not anxious of thy precious fame,
But comest like the clouds soft stealing on;
Thou soundest in a careless key the name
Of him, who to thy boundless treasury is won;
And yet he quickly cometh; for to die
Is ever gentlest to both low and high.
Thou therefore hast humanity's respect;
They build thee tombs upon the green hill side,
And will not suffer thee the least neglect,
And tend thee with a desolate sad pride;
For thou art strong O death! though sweetly so,
And in thy lovely gentleness sleeps woe.
O what are we, who swim upon this tide
Which we call life, yet to thy kingdom come?
Look not upon us till we chasten pride,
And preparation make for thy high home;
And, might we ask, make measurely approach,
And not upon these few smooth hours encroach; —
I come, I come, think not I turn away!
Fold round me thy gray robe! I stand to feel
The setting of my last frail earthly day;
I will not pluck it off, but calmly kneel;
For I am great as thou art, though not thou,
And thought as with thee dwells upon my brow.
Ah! might I ask thee, spirit, first to tend
Upon those dear ones whom my heart has found,
And supplicate thee, that I might them lend
A light in their last hours, and to the ground
Consign them still, — yet think me not too weak, —
Come to me now, and thou shalt find me meek,
Then let us live in fellowship with thee,
And turn our ruddy cheeks thy kisses pale,
And listen to thy song as minstrelsy,
And still revere thee, till our hearts' throbs fail,
Sinking within thy arms as sinks the sun
Below the farthest hills, when his day's work is done.
Whose green content o'erlaps them ever-more,
A host of mariners perpetual sleep,
Too hushed to heed the wild commotion's roar;
The emerald weeds glide softly o'er their bones,
And wash them gently 'mid the rounded stones.
No epitaph have they to tell their tale,
Their birth-place, age, and story all are lost,
Yet rest they deeply, as within the vale
Those sheltered bodies by the smooth slates crost;
And countless tribes of men lie on the hills,
And human blood runs in the crystal rills,
The air is full of men, who once enjoyed
The healthy element, nor looked beyond;
Many, who all their mortal strength employed
In human kindness, of their brothers fond,
And many more who counteracted fate
And battled in the strife of common hate.
Profoundest sleep enwraps them all around,
Sages and sire, the child, and manhood strong;
Shed not one tear; expend no sorrowing sound,
Tune thy clear voice to no funereal song;
For O death stands to welcome thee sure,
And life hath in its breath a steeper mystery.
I hear a bell that tolls an empty note,
The mourning anthem, and the sobbing prayer;
A grave fresh-opened, where the friends devote
To mouldering darkness a still corpse, once fair
And beautiful as morning's silver light,
And stars which throw their clear fire on the night;
She is not here who smiled within these eyes
Warmer than spring's first sunbeam through the pale
And tearful air, — resist these flatteries; —
O lay her silently alone, and in this vale
Shall the sweet winds sing better dirge for her,
And the fine early flowers her death-clothes minister.
O Death! thou art the palace of our hopes,
The storehouse of our joys, great labor's end,
Thou art the bronzed key which swiftly opes
The coffers of the past; and thou shalt send
Such trophies to our hearts, as sunny days
When life upon its golden harpstring plays.
And when a nation mourns a silent voice,
That long entranced its ear with melody,
How must thou in thy inmost soul rejoice,
To wrap such treasure in thy boundless sea;
And thou wert dignified if but one soul
Had been enfolded in thy twilight stole.
Triumphal arches circle o'er thy deep,
Dazzling with jewels, radiant with content;
In thy vast arms the sons of genius sleep,
The carvings of thy spheral monument,
Bearing no recollection of dim time,
Within thy green, and most perennial prime.
And might I sound a thought of thy decree,
How lapsed the dreary earth in fragrant pleasure,
And hummed along o'er life's contracted sea
Like the swift petrel, mimicking the wave's measure;
But though I long, the sounds will never come,
For in thy majesty my lesser voice is dumb.
Thou art not anxious of thy precious fame,
But comest like the clouds soft stealing on;
Thou soundest in a careless key the name
Of him, who to thy boundless treasury is won;
And yet he quickly cometh; for to die
Is ever gentlest to both low and high.
Thou therefore hast humanity's respect;
They build thee tombs upon the green hill side,
And will not suffer thee the least neglect,
And tend thee with a desolate sad pride;
For thou art strong O death! though sweetly so,
And in thy lovely gentleness sleeps woe.
O what are we, who swim upon this tide
Which we call life, yet to thy kingdom come?
Look not upon us till we chasten pride,
And preparation make for thy high home;
And, might we ask, make measurely approach,
And not upon these few smooth hours encroach; —
I come, I come, think not I turn away!
Fold round me thy gray robe! I stand to feel
The setting of my last frail earthly day;
I will not pluck it off, but calmly kneel;
For I am great as thou art, though not thou,
And thought as with thee dwells upon my brow.
Ah! might I ask thee, spirit, first to tend
Upon those dear ones whom my heart has found,
And supplicate thee, that I might them lend
A light in their last hours, and to the ground
Consign them still, — yet think me not too weak, —
Come to me now, and thou shalt find me meek,
Then let us live in fellowship with thee,
And turn our ruddy cheeks thy kisses pale,
And listen to thy song as minstrelsy,
And still revere thee, till our hearts' throbs fail,
Sinking within thy arms as sinks the sun
Below the farthest hills, when his day's work is done.
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