University of Virginia Library

It is a mournful and a solemn spot
Where Death—pale presence!—is—where Life is not;
And all that would be bright and glad elsewhere,
And soft, and sweet, and exquisite, and fair,
Here gains a shadowy and a thoughtful gloom,
Won from the awful contact of the tomb!
Here Summer, royal in her pomp, doth wear
A borrowed mournfulness—which all must share—
A borrowed mournfulness that smites the heart—
The heart which feels ere long 'tis doomed to part,
To leave but ashes and but dust behind,
For all the burning thoughts within it shrined;
The towering energies then slackening droop,
Loosed from their strenuous hold on Sky-built Hope,
Youth's falcon eye, that drinks the rushing light,
And shines as if with fire from Heaven—so bright—
So kindlingly and deeply bright, assumes
A fixed, cold stillness 'mongst these Time-worn Tombs—
Youth's burning heart that joyously forgot
Fate's awful certainties—here feels its lot,
And quiveringly submits, with grief and pain,
And owns its glowing day-dreams are but vain!
And Age here draws a yet more shortened breath,
And faints with an anticipated Death!
Throughout all changeful and revolving times,
All varying circumstance—all differing climes—
Thou ever hast thine awful sway maintained,
Oh, Death!—and ever ruled and ever reigned;
And wheresoe'er thou art—there broods a power
Which bids the cheek turn pale, the pulse beat slower.

Here woman—woman the devoted—lies!
Love and her fervid Soul—to yon rich skies
Together passed!—for sure, of Heaven they were,
And unto Heaven, Death-freed, they make repair.
Arise—ye gentle ones, in joy and power,
No more shall mortal anguish be your dower
As on this Earth—where they who love must know
Dark Separation's keen and lasting woe.
Not there shall suffering, weakness, doubt, and fear,
Be Woman's portion—as they must be here!
No more shall dread on her heart's pulses press,
Nor her unconquerable tenderness
Bow down that head by every beauty crowned,
Now o'er ten thousand worlds spread wide around,
Even raised triumphantly—and she is saved
From all that pained and wronged her and enslaved!
Woman!—devoted Dreamer!—canst thou hold
To this harsh world—the hollow and the cold?
And canst thou cling—with boundless worship cling
To every chain, which thou aside shouldst fling,
Wouldst thou indeed be calm, and glad, and free,
And 'scape the crush of deadliest misery—
For every tie on Earth is as a chain,
To bind thee down to peril and to pain;
But what is that to thee?—Thrones, Glories, Powers,
And star-bright Honours, and celestial Dowers—
Empire—and Majesty—and Strength and Might—
And Pomp and Power—and Triumph and Delight—
To thee, were not so precious and so dear,
Even as a handful of the frail dust here
If sanctified by love—whose hallowed breath
To thee is worth all round—above—beneath!
But well it is for thee, that 'gainst thy will,
Full oft thou'rt spared from worst of grief and ill!
And from the scene of many sorrows borne,
To realms which ever laugh with beamy morn!
Here woman, woman—the devoted lies—
And yet, not so—she liveth in the skies!
The gloomy grave may bind and hold her not—
Chains, ties, and slavery are indeed forgot;
Her march is 'mongst the Seraph ranks above,
Whose life like hers is but of boundless love!
She is not here—Heaven's glorious Scenes unrolled,
Her meek beseeching eyes may now behold!
That in their meekness had so much of might—
With thoughtful minds, and hearts that felt aright!

Nay! all must own, in Life's fond feverish hour—
That glance even multitudinous of Power!
Since it can bid keen Passion's lightnings dart
Through the most callous and most selfish heart,
And make it glow with an immortal fire,
And touch, and thrill, and rouse it—and inspire!
And it can calm the wild and stormy mind,
That rushed like Ocean-waves before the wind—
And soften it and soothe—and gently bless
With all the sweet repose of tenderness;
And it can bid the ambitious spirit turn
From all, for which it never ceased to yearn!—
And teach it to forsake its fiery path,
Where fell the thunderbolts of Strife and Wrath;
Or it can stir the sluggish and the slow,
And force the heart's long frozen founts to flow!
To cold Indifference—dull, and dead, and tame—
Give a proud interest and a lofty aim,
And kindle it with Zeal's impassioned flame!
Or win the o'erwrought Enthusiast from his trance,
For boundless, endless power is in that glance!—
Woman—with meekness and with truth arrayed,
(The fairest flower that flourishes to fade!)
Seems not thy Smile, pure, spiritual, refined,
The very Poetry of Soul and Mind,
Of the everlasting Mind and deathless Soul,
The Poetry that soars beyond controul!
Launching on one fleet hour of mortal fate
Eternity's sublime and glorious weight!—
Yet, oh! that smile, that lights the world around,
Too oft it leaves thy heart in darkness bound,
While many sorrows pierce thy bosom's fold,
And peace and joy Fate's stern decrees withhold,
And wronged Affection, wronged—but ever true—
Doth o'er thy path the thorns unsparing strew.
What is't to thee then, that the soul of grace
Is breathing o'er thy form, and from thy face,
That while thou may'st a hopeless mourner be,
The treasures of All Beauty meet in thee,
That on thine exquisite and precious head
A Glory from the far-off Heaven seems shed—
That with enchanting loveliness thou'rt rife,
If Love's bright self bless not thine inner life!
On thee the light of orbal worlds is showered,
With gifts unutterable art thou dowered,
Ah! linked with highest things, thou should'st not stoop
From the triumphant Altitudes of Hope!—
No! thou should'st feel that Soul of Love within
Was meant for worlds more pure—not worlds of sin—
That thine own gentle heart and lofty mind
Were for a nobler, fairer state designed;
And hearken to the Voice of Heaven, which breaks
Upon thine inborn sense, and sweetly speaks
To tell of brighter things than aught below,
Where reigns so much of terror and of woe—
Trust unto all thy heart doth still reveal,
Believe in all thou dost so deeply feel,
And know'st thou not thy Love can never die—
A part of thine own immortality!
And should'st thou limit then thy Hope and Trust
To this frail world—to ashes and to dust?

Oh! yet shalt thou be saved from grief and gloom,
And thou and Love be brightly wafted Home!
These who now round me rest in solemn sleep,
The Grave's unbroken slumber, stern and deep—
The Hamlet's gentle mothers and fair maids—
(Some snatched away while yet o'er their soft braids
Youth's golden light of perfect beauty shone,
And some, when their long weary task was done)—
These have been bounden all, in Love's strong chain,
The Peril known—the Passion and the Pain!—
These have fulfilled their destinies as well
As those who in the hall and palace dwell,
Affection's mighty reign is still confessed
Strong in a peasant's as a prince's breast—
Toil—hardship—care and suffering are in vain
To check or limit that triumphant reign;
And if unhappy in their love they were,
'Twas their worst suffering and their heaviest care;
And if their love was fortunate and blest,
Oh! little—little did they heed the rest!

Love—thou one luxury left unto the Poor—
Thou'rt like an Angel-watcher at their door!
With nought of vanity commixed or pride,
Oh! Love, all luxuries thou art worth beside;
And not because these gentle slumberers round
Were in a lowly path and humble found—
And not because in peasant homes they moved
Were they less worthy—were they less well loved—
Or less enchanting in their station shown—
Oh! no, an equal charm was round them thrown.
Nor might the statelier daughters of the land
Reign with a softer or more sweet command,
For Woman's gentle sovereignty serene
Is o'er the heart—the same in every scene!

Here sleeps the infant—haply, brightly borne
From Earth's dim twilight to the realms of morn,
Ere it had bowed to Sorrow's tyrant reign,
Or known the thrill of grief, the throb of pain—
Even as a very lightning of sweet life,
That vanished ere it mingled with the strife—
A Spirit Meteor—that but came to part
Ere Love or Fear had agonized the heart,
That precious Spirit may have soared above,
Where Knowledge never pierced, but only Love;
That precious, precious Spirit, borne away
Ere grief could wound or error could betray.
Oh! let that Spirit for one strong hour float
Around me in my dreams, from gloom remote,
And lead mine every yearning thought on high
To bask in sunshine of the upper Sky,
So overcharged with glory keen and bright,
That almost deadly unto mortal sight
Were the soul-dazzling splendour of its light!

Death! in this lowly, still, and green Retreat,
Gently the pondering mind thou seem'st to greet,
For, oh! there is a tenderness serene
Breathed o'er the quiet of this simple scene,
A gracious tenderness, with nought of gloom,
Shed o'er each flow'r-besprent and dew-lit tomb,
Found not where costly shrines of regal pride
Their ghastly tenants in dark splendour hide—
Here waves the grass through many a verdant hour,
Glittering beneath the Summer's beam-crossed show'r;
Morn—Evening—Night—here mingle evermore
With Death's broad shadow—spread o'er Earth's smooth floor!

Oh! my deep dreams! my deep and Mighty Dreams,
How strong their Empire o'er my Spirit seems—
(For of Hope—Fear—Doubt—Awe and Wonder blent—
These weave about our paths a Web wherein we are pent!)
My deep, deep dreams—though solemn as profound,
They shed a strong and wond'rous charm around,
Though many mysteries their vast circle fill,
(Too fearfully inextricable still!)—
They make the Scene more hallowed and more dear,
They make it lovelier and more bright appear!
And yet those dreams they are of Death!—whose power
Is felt far more, in such a peaceful hour;
For Evening now is slowly coming on,
And Day, with all its charms, is nearly done;
And Nature speaks with voice of fond appeal,
To teach the heart those solemn truths to feel;
For still Man's holiest monitress she is,
And points his path to wisdom and to bliss;
And still she speaks in clear, strong tones, and saith,
“Behold incessant change—continual death,
Decay still seizing on all forms of mine—
Oh! Man! behold my fate, and think of thine.”
Shall Nature's whisp'ring voice, or tempest cry,
Alike be scorned by mortals—born to die?
Shall Nature's thunderings, threatenings, prayers, prove vain,
While zealously she storms Man's heart and brain?
The Stars, like glowing Visions, float and stream
Heaven's living Poetry on every beam;
They draw the thought to all which is above,
And claim for loftiest, noblest things—our love.
The gathered Surges of the haughty Sea,
Fierce, black, and hoarse, in hours when Storms reign free,
Tell fearful tales fraught with profound dismay,
Of the utter nothingness of dust and clay.
When the Sea rages, wrestling as 'twould rock,
With heave convulsive and terrific shock,
The mighty Heavens upon its thundering Waves,
Of thousands of the Earth the troublous graves,
Its voice of strength doth fearfully proclaim
How weak is Man in his frail mortal frame,
How weak without Almighty help and aid—
A gasping trembler—powerless and afraid;
And the huge billows lift their heads on high,
Like crested Titans, to assault the sky;
And frowning Pyramids they seem to form,
Seen by the Lightning glimpses of the Storm,
As though to build, on Mockery fierce, intent,
To those who sink a Moment's Monument!
And to their own dark Triumph, proud and high,
Their own stern Conquest and dread Victory,
A moment's heaving trophy pile sublime,
That shames the work of Nations and of time!

Dark lifted to the Firmament's broad arch,
Vexing the Stars upon their dazzling march!
But if in this frame—in this strange brief Life,
Oh, Man! thou'rt frail, and weak 'mid Nature's strife,
If thou but hearkenest to her counsel sage,
And studiest carefully her pregnant page,
What more than glory and what more than power,
Shalt thou inherit in the appointed hour,
When the proud Stars shall pale their heavenly fire,
Doomed each in turn to wither and to expire,
When the great Sun shall powerless wax and old,
His rays grown feeble, and his rich smiles cold,
And all the Heavens surrounding him shall seem
Like the departing pageants of a Dream—
When the deep Seas shall leave no trace to tell
Where once their haughty Surges joyed to swell;
Nay, when the globe whereon they heaved is gone,
And Nature's great and glorious task is done—
Man's everlasting Spirit shall aspire,
Through Ages after Ages, higher and higher,
New climes of boundless Glory ever try,
And revel rich in Immortality!
Each thought—Creation—gifted with a Dower
Not of its own—but of Almighty Power;
Each hope—Completion—nay, to Hope no more
Stooping in meek dependence as before—
Itself its own great Happiness—and Fate
Its own great Truth—and Circumstance and State!—
My thoughts! my deep and wandering thoughts, be still,
Nor dare with such dread grandeur thus to thrill!