Claribel and Other Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Another death! another Martyr lain
In the Exiles' Tomb!—O Grief! thy fangs are sharp;
And these heart-cleaving agonies threat to warp
The hopefullest spirit from its upward strain.
Alas! the higher hope, the farther fall:
And more than lofty hope must be thy pall.

O unaccomplish'd hope! O grief of griefs,
When the sap faileth ere the worth is ripe!
Thou proud fruit-bearer, whom Decay doth wipe,
As a mere painting, from life's page! The chiefs
Of the world's worthiest look'd to thee for aid;
And we to worship in thy branching shade.

The axe hath struck thee in thy manhood's prime:
Thy purpose unmatured: so fairly blown
Thy blossom, and the fruit set: all foreknown
The richness of thy virtue, the sublime
Eternity enkernel'd in its growth.
Thy life read to us certain as God's troth.

Far from thy home thou liest; strangers' ground
Must pillow thy sad sleep. Some two or three,
Thy brother-exiles, doubly kin to thee,
Their tears long since exhausted, droop around
Thy narrow deathbed: hearts that may not break,—
Harden'd against thy loss for Poland's sake.

Over thy grave no tears; but death-like clasp
Of hands that may not wave thee back to shore!
Thy tomb is but one martyr-stair the more,
Whereon we mount the martyr's crown to grasp.
O Friend! we dare not whisper Hope to lay
Our bones by thine. Our hope must turn away.

Must turn even from thy ashes, Well-beloved!
Not thou, nor ought but our relentless task,
May claim our thought. And yet, if toil might ask
A guerdon for the toiler worth-approved,
'T would be some weary hours, toil-spared, to gaze
Back on thy life, re-studying all its praise.

In vain! Recall the past! Recall thy life!—
The shadow followeth the vanish'd form;
His grave is yet moist earth, their tears are warm:
But flowers spring up, new blossoming smiles are rife.
Not unto us. Thy shadow clouds the world,
Deepening the gloom wherein our life was furl'd.

For we have lost thee; and, though round our brows
The hastening hours entwine their dearest wreath,
Our country's freedom and the world's, thy death
Would shade the laurel blossoms. How carouse
The full of joy above thy distant grave?
Despair hath buried all in that sea cave.

Ah, no! God's world is wider than our earth.
What is this earth? A narrow altar-stone,
Which thou, brave friend! did'st lay thy life upon
For God: a sacrifice of endless worth.
All worth is endless, thou must live therefore:
Part of the Eternal Work for evermore.

We look to see again thy form divine;
We pray to follow on thy path. What prayer?
The vow that slayeth even grief's despair,
The prayer of deeds of the same high stamp as thine.
Stay for us, Angel! within heaven's gate:
Thy ancient comrades call on thee to wait.

Our arms again shall hold thee to our heart;
Our eyes again shall read thy inmost soul;
And foot by foot toward the higher goal
Our lives shall climb:—God! nevermore to part.
Pray God to snatch us up to heaven's gate:
Lest thy swift-soaring spirit should not wait.

The sun is down; but in the western clouds
The lengthening trail of splendour grandly lies:
The hem of Hope yet glistens in our eyes.
And what though night the sunniest memory shrouds?
God hath a morrow for the loving. We
Will grieve no more for one lost utterly.

Memory and faith shall lift us to thy side.
So shall our thought be wing'd, even as the dove
Of comfort, that the weary ark may move
Toward the shore. And whatsoe'er betide
Our lives,—do we not know that thou art free
From earth's lament, from earth's anxiety?

O blessed Dead! beyond all earthly pains;
Beyond the calculation of low needs;
Thy growth no longer choked by earthy weeds;
Thy spirit clear'd from care's corrosive chains!
O blessed Dead! O blessed Life-in-death,
Transcending all life's poor decease of breath!

Thou walkest not upon some desolate moor
In the storm-wildering midnight, when thine own,
Thy trusted friend, hath lagg'd and left thee lone.
He knows not poverty who, being poor,
Hath still one friend. But he who fain had kept
The comrade whom his zeal hath overstept.

Thou sufferest not the friendly caviling
Impugning motive; nor that worse than spear
Of foeman,—biting doubt of one most dear
Laid in thy deepest heart, a barbed sting
Never to be withdrawn. For we were friends:
Alas! and neither to the other bends.

Thou hast escaped continual falling off
Of old companions; and that aching void
Of the proud heart which has been over-buoy'd
With friendship's idle breath; and now the scoff
Of failure even as idly passeth by
Thy poor remains:—Thou soaring through the sky.

Knowing no more that malady of hope—
The sickness of deferral, thou canst look
Thorough the heavens and, healthily patient, brook
Delay,—defeat. For in thy vision's scope
Most distant cometh. We might see it too,
But dizzying faintness overveils our view.

And when disaster flings us in the dust,—
Or when we wearily drop on the highway-side,—
Or when in prison'd, exiled depths the pride
Of suffering bows its head, as oft it must,—
We can not, looking on thy wasted corse,
Perceive the future. Lend us of thy force!

No more of grief!—Thy voice comes to us now,
Answering our invocation. We uplift
Our eyes; and, looking through the tempest-rift,
Behold the light of thy triumphant brow
There in the line of God. Lest we should miss
His farthest throne, he neareth us with this.