Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Surpassing Spirit! oh may he rest on
Safe in the haven where no life-storm rages,
Whose gentle fancy drew thee from the stone,
And left high comfort for the coming ages.

May no rude step and no unholy noises
Fright the dear silence of the sculptor's grave,
But forest flower-bells with their airy voices
Ring o'er it all the music that they have.

For he hath righted thee, deep-injured Death,
And graved thee in the glory which thou wearest;
So we shall call thee with our latest breath
Of friends the best, of dear consolers, dearest.

121

A shape whose home is in the happy city,
A splendid angel borne on healing wings,
Too soft for other passion than sweet pity,
Too beautiful for all imaginings.

A blooming seraph-boy sent down to save
Of sinking hearts a most unnumbered number;
Unlocking the cool chambers of the grave,
And spreading them a couch for pleasant slumber:

A couch for pleasant slumber, and still rest,
Whose waking is a fair and happy morrow;
Where hope's hot fever never stirs the breast,
Nor sin, nor weariness, nor sense of sorrow.

We know thee now, dear Death; ah! why so long
Were we so blinded to thy beauty's glory?
We did thee, gentle friend, ungentle wrong,
Railing in angry rhyme and ancient story.

We see thee standing as thou art in stone
A gentle slayer, with a hand unfailing
Striking to the sick heart the weary one,
And with a smile the prisoned soul ungaoling.

122

Then Death, oh Death! dear morning of the day
In whose long light, hearts shall be single-hearted,
And Iustrous beauty shall not fade away,
And lip from loving lip shall not be parted;

Come with the keenest arrow of thy quiver,
Strike to the life as deep as stroke may be;
So shall the soul with quick and eager shiver
Plume its free wings, and soar away with thee.

Florence, August, 1852.