The Poetical Works of Robert Montgomery :: :: University of Virginia Library

Pity the dead!—nay, rather mourn for those
Who battle on through Life's harsh scene of care,
In whose grieved breast the thorn of trial grows,
While in the crowd all echoless they are:
Bearing some poison'd shaft within the heart
They feel, bad World! the hollowness thou art.

Pity the dead!—no, rather weep for them
Who on vex'd earth must suffer, toil, and sin,
And pray, their passion's burning tide to stem
And keep close watch o'er waywardness within;
Who hour by hour repentance must renew,
And mourn how little for their Lord they do.

But oh! the dead, the justified and saved,
Children of glory, wrapt in Jesu's arms,
The darkness of the sepulchre they braved
And there are shielded safe from Earth's alarms;
Pure in the brightness of ethereal bliss,
They would not change it for a scene like this!

The spirits of the Just, made perfect now,
Have each in heaven their beatific calm;
Serenity arrays each kingly Brow,
And through each Heart distils celestial balm;
Their hope as cloudless as the peace divine,—
Seraphic visions round them reign, and shine.

And He is there! the kingdom's Light and Lord,
Who out of time and toil has call'd them home,
And now fulfils each wise and glorious word
True faith believed, when doom'd on earth to roam,—
E'en Christ, who beautifies the Spirit-throngs,
'Mid their deep worship of adoring songs.

But, ah! fond Nature, in thy bosom yearn
Feelings which oft our passive faith o'erflow;
And with such flame intense affections burn
That time, nor truth, can quench their secret glow;
Down the deep heart some unvoiced thoughts remain,
And bid us sigh to see our Dead again.

“My beautiful, my bright, my darling child!
Her smile was eloquent with soul to me;”
Thus the wan mother in her anguish wild
Echoes the regions of eternity,
When round the heart-strings thrills the seeming breath
Of some loved daughter, tomb'd in early death.

“And thou, my dead, my unforgotten boy!
Prop of our home, and pillar of our race,
Genius was thine, and brow of princely joy,
And more than beauty clothed thy classic face;
How did I dote, and for thy future build
Schemes which parental hearts alone have fill'd.”—

So grieves a sire, when Love's ideal hours
Roll their sad cadence o'er his dreaming brain,
When the dead Past resumes a living power
And with such resurrection smiles again,
That hand in hand his child he seems to hold,
And hear the Voice that lull'd him so of old.

And thou, lone sister! who pale watch didst keep
Night after night, around some fairy child,
Marking each dimple which in rosy sleep
Sunn'd the pure face, as though an angel smiled,
When Death withdrew it to th' unseen abode,
Thy heart to madness almost overflow'd.

But, peace! fond mourners: calm your souls to rest,
The Dead you weep are still alive to Him,
Lord of those mansions, where the bright and blest
Are pure and peaceful as the seraphim;

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No sin infects, nor sorrow clouds that scene
Where the saved dead since Adam's death have been.

Here, while we travel through the dust of time
Dark imperfections oft the soul defile;
Whate'er the circumstance, or change, or clime,
Creation's noblest is but vain and vile:
What are our woods and fields, our mountains, glens, and streams,
To God's bright landscape, which in glory beams?

Then, hush thy moan, Affection! curb thy will;
Think of the dead as to perfection brought,
In heart all holy, as the conscience still
Feels the rich calm the “Blood of Sprinkling” wrought:—
No cloud to tinge the colour of their days,
They harp the anthem of redemption's praise.

Dead though their forms in dust sepulchral lie,
Ecstatic faith the spirit loves to view,
And longs to vision with prophetic eye
What awful raptures must pervade it through,
As more and more eternity unfolds
Secrets of Glory, vast as heaven beholds.