 | Poems by William W. Story |  |
113
“DE PROFUNDIS CLAMAVI.”
I.
The bells are ringing, heavily swinging in the belfry to and fro,The long procession is slowly toiling, toiling on in the street below;
Is it funeral or a festa? Hark! that solemn chanting tells
With responses sad and solemn, as it rises, dies, and dwells,
It is a funeral, not a festa. Low, the De Profundis swells,
And heavily toll for the parted soul the throbbing funeral bells.
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II.
The priestly column is moving solemn—the dripping, tipping wax-lights flare;Flare and swale, their guttering droppings caught by the boys that follow there;
Yellow and ghastly over the serges and cowls of Capuchins they glow,
Over their shaven crowns and bearded faces as they chanting go—
Chanting hoarsely the De Profundis while their murmur dies and swells,
And heavily toll for the parted soul the pulsing funeral bells.
III.
See! on their shoulders white-robed holders bear aloft the gloomy bier;White-robed burial companies bear it; never a friend is walking near:—
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The golden death-head over the coffin, the golden fringes round it fall,—
While from the lips of careless, hireling priests the De Profundis swells,
And heavily toll for the parted soul the throbbing funeral bells.
IV.
Now in a cluster, torches fluster,—the heavy curtain is pushed away,As at the wide church-door they enter, and the black-palled coffin lay
On its catafalque, fronting the altar, girdled by candles tall and white,
And there alone in the deepening gloom they leave it to lie till the middle night,—
While the last sad tone of the De Profundis dies through the frescoed dome and swells,
And the last deep knoll for the parted soul peals from the pulsing bells.
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V.
Thence it is hurried and darkly buried, when the solemn midnight hangs above,By hirelings buried, without a prayer, or a sobbing last farewell of love,—
Hurried and buried, the pomp all over, with none to shed above it a tear,—
Hurried and hid like a thing of horror, with never a friend or lover near,—
And the solemn tone of the De Profundis now no longer rises and swells,
And no longer toll for the parted soul the throbbing funeral bells.
VI.
When through the portal of death the immortal hath passed, and left this house of clay—When to the grave this dust deserted is borne upon its silent way,
Light me no torches—no hired procession—but ye beloved ones be near,
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And your voices of love be the De Profundis that from your sorrowing bosoms swells,
While throbbing toll for the parted soul the solemn funeral bells.
Bagni di Lucca, Aug. 22, 1853.
| Poems by William W. Story | |