 | The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield |  |
THE DIRGE.
Weep not thou for the dead!
Sweet are their dreamless slumbers in the tomb—
Their eyelids move not in the morning's light,
No sun breaks on the solitary gloom,
No sound disturbs the silence of their night—
Soft seems their lowly bed!
Sweet are their dreamless slumbers in the tomb—
Their eyelids move not in the morning's light,
No sun breaks on the solitary gloom,
No sound disturbs the silence of their night—
Soft seems their lowly bed!
Grieve not for them, whose days
Of earthly durance have so quickly passed,—
Who feel no more affliction's iron chain!
Sigh not for them who long since sighed their last,
Never to taste of sin and woe again
In realms of joy and praise!
Of earthly durance have so quickly passed,—
Who feel no more affliction's iron chain!
Sigh not for them who long since sighed their last,
Never to taste of sin and woe again
In realms of joy and praise!
322
What they were once to thee
It nought avails to think—save thou canst draw
Pure thoughts of piety, and peace, and love,
And reverent faith in heaven's eternal law,
From their soft teachings, ere they soared above,
Lost in Eternity!
It nought avails to think—save thou canst draw
Pure thoughts of piety, and peace, and love,
And reverent faith in heaven's eternal law,
From their soft teachings, ere they soared above,
Lost in Eternity!
When o'er the pallid brow
Death flings his shadow—and the pale, cold cheek
Quivers, and light forsakes the upturned eye,
And the voice fails ere faltering lips can speak
The last farewell—be not dismayed—to die
Is man's last lot below!
Death flings his shadow—and the pale, cold cheek
Quivers, and light forsakes the upturned eye,
And the voice fails ere faltering lips can speak
The last farewell—be not dismayed—to die
Is man's last lot below!
Death o'er the world hath passed
Oft, and the charnel closed in silence o'er
Unnumbered generations—past and gone!
And he will reign till Earth can hold no more—
Till Time shall sink beneath the Eternal Throne,
And Heaven receive its last.
Oft, and the charnel closed in silence o'er
Unnumbered generations—past and gone!
And he will reign till Earth can hold no more—
Till Time shall sink beneath the Eternal Throne,
And Heaven receive its last.
Death enters at our birth
The moulded form we idolize so much,
And hour by hour some subtle thread dissolves,
That links the web of life—at his cold touch
Power after power decays as time revolves,
Till earth is blent with earth.
The moulded form we idolize so much,
And hour by hour some subtle thread dissolves,
That links the web of life—at his cold touch
Power after power decays as time revolves,
Till earth is blent with earth.
The soul cannot abide
In the dark dreariness of flesh and sin;—
Its powers are chained and trampled on by clay,
And paralyzed and crushed; 't would enter in
Its own pure heaven, where passion's disarray
Comes not, nor hate nor pride.
In the dark dreariness of flesh and sin;—
Its powers are chained and trampled on by clay,
And paralyzed and crushed; 't would enter in
Its own pure heaven, where passion's disarray
Comes not, nor hate nor pride.
Come, widowed one! with me,
And we will wander through the shades of death!
Look now upon those sheeted forms that soar
Amid the still and rosy air! their breath
Wafts the rich fragrance of heaven's flowery shore—
Amid the light of Deity!
And we will wander through the shades of death!
Look now upon those sheeted forms that soar
Amid the still and rosy air! their breath
Wafts the rich fragrance of heaven's flowery shore—
Amid the light of Deity!
323
Would'st thou wail o'er their flight?
Or curb their pinions with the chains of Time?
Art thou or canst thou be so happy here,
Thy spirit pants not for a fairer clime?
O, sorrowing child of sin, and doubt, and fear!
Thy heart knows no delight.
Or curb their pinions with the chains of Time?
Art thou or canst thou be so happy here,
Thy spirit pants not for a fairer clime?
O, sorrowing child of sin, and doubt, and fear!
Thy heart knows no delight.
Would'st thou roll back the waves
Of the unfathomed ocean of the Past,
And from soft slumbers wake the undreaming Dead,
Again to shiver in the bleak, cold blast,
Again the desert of despair to tread,
And mourn their peaceful graves?
Of the unfathomed ocean of the Past,
And from soft slumbers wake the undreaming Dead,
Again to shiver in the bleak, cold blast,
Again the desert of despair to tread,
And mourn their peaceful graves?
Ah, no!—forget them not!
Thoughts of the dead incite to worthy deeds,
Or from the paths of lawless ill deter;
When the lone heart in silent sorrow bleeds,
Or sin entices—to the past recur—
Trust heaven! thou wilt not be forgot!
Thoughts of the dead incite to worthy deeds,
Or from the paths of lawless ill deter;
When the lone heart in silent sorrow bleeds,
Or sin entices—to the past recur—
Trust heaven! thou wilt not be forgot!
Weep not for them who leave
In childhood's sinless hours the haunts of vice!
Mourn not the Lovely in their bloom restored
To the bright bowers of their own paradise!
Mourn not the Good who meet their honoured Lord
Where they no more can grieve!
In childhood's sinless hours the haunts of vice!
Mourn not the Lovely in their bloom restored
To the bright bowers of their own paradise!
Mourn not the Good who meet their honoured Lord
Where they no more can grieve!
But rather weep and mourn
That thou art yet a sinning child of dust,
Changeful as April skies or fortune's brow;
And, while thy grief prevails, be wise, and just,
And kind—so thou shalt die like flowers that blow,
And into rose-air turn.
That thou art yet a sinning child of dust,
Changeful as April skies or fortune's brow;
And, while thy grief prevails, be wise, and just,
And kind—so thou shalt die like flowers that blow,
And into rose-air turn.
| The poems and prose writings of Sumner Lincoln Fairfield | |