The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly In Two Volumes |
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| IX. |
| X. |
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| XII. | XII. |
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 | The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly |  |
XII.
The bier has left the hall,—has pass'd the court,—
Has enter'd, slow and dim, the Chapel's porte;
Silence is now for sound; for lustre, gloom;
Dim, in long, moveless lines, gleam lance and plume;
The flag is furl'd, the sabre in its sheath,
All is the hush'd magnificence of death.
Yet pale and partial flashes from the moon,
Toiling through mist-wreaths now, are downwards thrown,
Edging with silver, like a tempest-cloud,
The Chapel's gloomy arch, the thick-group'd crowd,
That stand with upturn'd eyes, and shapes like stone,
Watching the casements where the bier has gone.
Within are solemn sights, and on the air
Come from the dim cathedral, hymn and prayer,
The rites of love and sorrow, where the heart
Hopes against hope,—streams blood,—yet dares to part;
And, as the earth strikes on the coffin, thinks,
Though at the sound the inmost spirit shrinks,
How surely and how soon that clay shall be
Glorious,—that pale, cold prisoner be free.
Has enter'd, slow and dim, the Chapel's porte;
Silence is now for sound; for lustre, gloom;
Dim, in long, moveless lines, gleam lance and plume;
The flag is furl'd, the sabre in its sheath,
All is the hush'd magnificence of death.
Yet pale and partial flashes from the moon,
Toiling through mist-wreaths now, are downwards thrown,
Edging with silver, like a tempest-cloud,
The Chapel's gloomy arch, the thick-group'd crowd,
339
Watching the casements where the bier has gone.
Within are solemn sights, and on the air
Come from the dim cathedral, hymn and prayer,
The rites of love and sorrow, where the heart
Hopes against hope,—streams blood,—yet dares to part;
And, as the earth strikes on the coffin, thinks,
Though at the sound the inmost spirit shrinks,
How surely and how soon that clay shall be
Glorious,—that pale, cold prisoner be free.
Glorious and free thou art! we idly weep:
Earth has not kept thee, was not made to keep.
The pure have but brief trial,—Joy is theirs
At once!—they have the privilege of years!
They ask not our slow discipline to rise,
Angels ev'n here—Death gives at once the prize.
Earth has not kept thee, was not made to keep.
The pure have but brief trial,—Joy is theirs
At once!—they have the privilege of years!
They ask not our slow discipline to rise,
Angels ev'n here—Death gives at once the prize.
The choral hymn was past, and past the prayer,
That from a thousand voices fill'd the air,
Like one ascending of their hearts to heaven;—
Then—to the Giver was the treasure given!
The bier began to sink before their eye,
Slow as a spectre, dimly, silently:
The crown,—the empty crown—still gleam'd; once more
All gazed, all wept—it sank—the rite was o'er.
That from a thousand voices fill'd the air,
340
Then—to the Giver was the treasure given!
The bier began to sink before their eye,
Slow as a spectre, dimly, silently:
The crown,—the empty crown—still gleam'd; once more
All gazed, all wept—it sank—the rite was o'er.
| The Poetical Works of the Rev. George Croly | |