 | Dryburgh Abbey and other poems |  |
THE SLUMBERERS.
I
Gaze thou upon this mental dome—This mortal palace of the mind—
This spirit-dwelling—this soul's home—
To dreamy slumber now resigned:
The fringed and ivory doors are closed
Upon the azure world below;
The ruby hall, where Love reposed,
Hath lost its soft, its minstrel flow.
To the land of dreams hath fled
Music sweet as incense shed!
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II
Tranquil rest the small white feet;How unmoved the graceful hand!
Yet, in measured circle's fleet
Dance they in the visioned land!
Calmly, as the frozen snow,
O'er her arm of beauty rare,
Droops that pale enchanted brow
'Neath its long and shadowy hair;
Not a smile the lip surrounds,
Yet she laughs where mirth abounds!
III
Round the damask curtains fall,Soft the silken pillow bends,
Nothing save the watcher's call
To the ear Time's echo lends;
Yet, beneath the living green
Of the ancient woods and hills,
Where the timid fawns are seen
Trooping by the forest rills;
Thousand flowers around her beaming,
Walks she in the land of dreaming!
IV
Strange that the closed eye should see!—That the stirless feet should dance
To a magic minstrelsy,
Heard but in the sleeper's trance.
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That the curtain fold on high,
With the branching leaves of spring,
Should delude the Dreamer's eye!
Mirthful—yet without a smile!
Mute—yet singing all the while.
V
To a darker couch we tread,Where a maiden lowly lies;
Solemn light the tapers shed,
O'er the cold and shrouded eyes!
On her white, unheaving breast,
As the sculptor's marble fair,
One pale, wasted hand doth rest,
Half upcurved as still in prayer:
To the land of souls have flown
Feelings sweet as angels' own.
VI
Mark how wan the sombre brow!Sadly dark the fallen cheeks;
Yet, she soars a seraph now,
Where the morn of Heaven breaks.
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Silent on her funeral bed;
Like a lily crushed and bowed,
Ere its brief spring-hour had fled:
Silent—yet she sings—she hears
The host of God's seraphic spheres!
VII
Strange the lifeless eye should knowGlories hid from living gaze;
Strange that form of saddest wo
Lifts to God rejoicing praise.
Strange that hand so meekly laid
On the sunk and wearied breast,
Clasped by Christ—in Faith arrayed—
Is guided to immortal rest.
Lost—yet with Jehovah found!
Dead—yet with the deathless crowned!
| Dryburgh Abbey and other poems | |