Classic Poem

Such dismal moaning as a storm precedes
With smothered echoes fills the house of woe,
The death-chime from the Minster tower pleads!
A youth is carried forth with footsteps slow.
A stripling — not yet ripened for the tomb,
Plucked prematurely in his early days,
His pulses strong, his cheeks in ruddy bloom,
The fire yet flashing from his eager gaze. —
A son — his mother's darling (you may tell
From that long lamentable cry of pain)
My bosom friend — alas! my brother too —
An ye be men, follow the mournful train!

Boast ye, ye lofty, hoary-headed pines
Who shrink not from the storm, nor thunders fear?
Ye mountain tops on which the heavens recline?
Ye heavens, that whole suns march in your sphere?
Dost boast, thou grey-beard, that this honoured name
On great achievement's swelling wave relies?
And does the hero boast his ancient fame,
Safe in his glorious temple in the skies?
Let once the canker worm the bud assail,
And who but fools will battle with decay?
Above or here below what can avail
When Death in such a stripling finds a prey?

His early years slid by with flying feet,
Each day a rosy-coloured garment wore,
And — ah! to him the world was very sweet,
The future promised an enchanting store.
He saw a life of Paradise unfold,
And all things glitter in eternal gold.
Yet even as the mother's tear-drop fell,
The realms of Death before him opened wide;
The fatal threads were severed, and the spell
Swept heaven and earth relentlessly aside.
Thoughts of the grave in vain he would defy —
Ah! sweet the world to those about to die!

Deaf is that narrow house, and silence reigns,
Its tenant's slumbers are prolonged and deep;
No scope for thine exalted hope remains,
Beloved brother, in this endless sleep.
Oft in the sunshine basks thy favourite hill,
But what to thee are those inspiring rays?
Though to the breeze the flowers curtsey still,
Their rustle nothing to thine ear conveys.
Thy glance will sparkle never more with love,
In thine embrace no bride will ever sigh,
And though our tears a very torrent prove,
Thine eyes must close for ever — thou must die.

Yet not amiss! — Well earned is thy repose;
At peace thou art within thy strait domain;
Thy pleasures perish, but no less thy woes,
And thou hast respite from this world of pain.
Over thee now calumnious tongues may wag,
Temptation issue from its poisoned well,
The sleek-faced Pharisee may smirk and brag,
And hypocrites consign thy soul to hell,
Swindlers through apostolic masks may leer,
And stern uprightness' bastard daughter play,
Throwing the dice of chance, with mortals here,
And on for ever to the Judgment day.

And may Dame Fortune on thy steps attend,
As on her favourites she loves to fawn;
One moment men a tottering throne ascend,
Anon behold them through a quagmire drawn.
Rest thou at peace within thy narrow grave!
This tragi-comical extravagance,
This hazard borne on a tempestuous wave,
This stupid lottery — this game of chance,
This idle throng which does but seem to toil,
The weary task which counterfeits repose,
Brother! — From all this hellish Heaven recoil,
On sights like these thine eyes for ever close.

Farewell, thou trusty confidant, farewell,
Our loving blessings gently round thee soar!
Slumber in peace in thy sepulchral cell,
Slumber in peace until we meet once more!
Till o'er these hills swelling with human clay
The trumpet of th' Omnipotent shall sound,
And, Death's benumbing fetters swept away,
Before God's blast the startled corpses bound;
Until, impregnated with God's own breath,
The graves bring forth: and at the blare of doom,
Amid the smoke of bursting planets, Death
The very dead surrenders from the tomb.

Though not in worlds imagined by the wise,
Nor yet in heavens, as the bards pretend,
Nor in some artificial Paradise —
Yet we shall overtake thee in the end.
Can it be true that, as the Pilgrim said,
Beyond the tomb there still is room for thought?
That virtue o'er the grave a bridge can spread?
Or are these fancies which must count for nought?
To thee these mysteries are now laid bare,
And Truth refreshes thine enraptured soul,
The very Truth, illumined by the glare
Which flashes from th' Almighty Father's bowl.

Advance, thou grim and silent bearer train
E'en he must garnish the Avenger's board!
Cease your laments and from your cries abstain,
Let dust on dust over the mound be poured!
Who is the man to question God's decree?
And whose the eye th' abysses to explore?
God of the dismal tomb, we worship thee,
But tremble, shuddering, as we adore.
Dust may in dust again its fellow find,
But from its crumbling home the soul will fly;
His ashes may be scattered to the wind,
His love remains for ever and for aye.