 | Eonchs of ruby. A Gift of Love |  |
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THE MIGHTY DEAD.
AN ELEGIAC POEM.
“Requiem æternam dona eis. Domine, et lux perpetua luceat eis.”—
Chant of the Franciscan Monks over the Dead.“Mourn for the mourner and not for the dead; for he is at rest, and we in tears.”—
From an Ancient Hebrew Dirge.“Thy sun shall no more go down; neither shall the moon withdraw herself; for the Lord shall be thine everlasting light, and the days of thy mourning shall be ended.”—
Bible.I.
Ever—forever more—Still upward—onward into perfect bliss—
Dove-like thy spirit soars to find that shore—
The Elysian-Isle of Joy—where happiness
And life are one—where man shall ever be
Glorious in bliss—God-like eternally.
II.
Into that Far-off Land—The Elysian-Isles of Infinite Delight—
Singing sweet anthems with that Angel-band
Around God's throne, whose souls, like Stars at night,
Make music while they shine—thy soul is gone—
Leaving the friends who mourn for thee alone!
III.
In that Serene Abode—The Eden-Isles of Love—thou art at rest—
Safe in the Living Paradise of God—
Holding communion with the Heavenly Blest—
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With Heaven's high Seraphs, praising God always.
IV.
Swift as the rolling spheresDiffuse their circular orbit-tones on high—
Spreading till they embrace th' Eternal Years
With their dilating, wave-like melody—
Winnowing the calm, clear, interstellar air—
Does thy sweet, spiritual music spread up there.
V.
There, Amaranthine Flowers,Immortal, grow, which never cease to bloom;
But, from the Evergreen Celestial Bowers,
Feed the bright Angels with divine perfume;
While, garmented with plumage ever gay,
Ten thousand birds sing through Eternal Day.
VI.
There, Bowers of AsphodelBreathe in th' Elysian air divine perfume—
Sweet, Sylvan Homes, where wedded spirits dwell
Soon after they unite beyond the tomb—
Couched upon Swan-down, where the Sylvanry
Is sweeter than the Bowers of Œnoe.
VII.
Far, through the crystal air,Æolian sounds are heard, forever sweet,—
Caused by the harp-like boughs which vibrate there,
Beneath the azure Breezes, when they meet,
Soft Angels of the Spring! to bear perfume
From opening flowers to Seraphs as they bloom.
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VIII.
On every leaf that growsBeside the Living Waters, in each flower,
A Song is written, which, while opening, shows
An Angel's history, which, sung, gives power
To those who hear to know the things to be,
And see that which before they could not see.
IX.
The soft light of their eyesShepherd the soul into the Folds of Bliss,
Where the Green Pastures lie of Paradise—
(As Beauty's eyes have done the soul of this—)
Where, lamb-like, they recline beneath some tree,
Listening to hear the Doves sing joyously.
X.
Their language, too, is soft—Continuous—flowing—like some gentle brook
At midnight singing—heard by me so oft
In mine own land, when in some owlet-nook
I lingered, listening to its flow at night,
Beneath the Moon whose beams rained down delight.
XI.
There, streams forever flow,Of crystal purity, which wind among
The lawny, labyrinthine aisles, where blow
Unfading flowers—where birds, of various song,
Sing, through unending Day, the Song of Love,
And all that sing sing sweeter than the Dove.
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XII.
All that could die is dead!Thy body is as senseless as the grave!
But thy undying Soul to Heaven hast fled—
A spiritual body—Christ alone could save!
A perfect being, without parts—one whole—
Is now the nature of thy God-made soul.
XIII.
And that which is thus madeCan never change—an essence can not die—
An undivided whole can never fade—
But must endure forever—live on high
When all that is of parts must fade away,
And pass to those as subject to decay.
XIV.
Sorrow there can be noneWhere the exalted splendor of the soul
Shall shine out brighter than the noonday-sun!
For Death has over Spirits no control,
And cannot touch Man's mind, nor mar the joy
Of that which God himself will not destroy.
XV.
Then, what is Death?—Not evenA common darkness which might here molest
The soul in passing from this world to Heaven;
That Valley of the Mountains of the Blest,
From whose top God's immortal Son sublime
Brought Truths to Man which thunder through all time.
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XVI.
The grave is, then, the GateWhich leads up to the Portals of that King
Whose House is Heaven—whose Temple is so great—
So wide—so lofty—high—that every thing
Th' Immortal Soul requires is there—divine—
And part of every thing that is, is thine.
XVII.
Like Moses on the MountOf Horeb, wonderful to look upon—
All garmented with glory from the Fount
Of God—thou didst appear, great Washington!
Grasping the Parchment Scroll of Liberty,
Signed by the fearless Elders of the Free.
XVIII.
Thou wert the Great High PriestOf Him who was the Prophet of the Free—
Who entered, as the follower of Christ,
The New Jerusalem of Liberty,
And swore an oath which shook the dome of Heaven,
Never to rest till England's chains were riven.
XIX.
As on OblivionGod laid the Corner Stone of Nature, which
The Fabric of this world was reared upon,
With such immeasurable grandeur rich
And wonderful in glory—so did they
Their Altar, built for Liberty, that Day.
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XX.
And in this Country vast—This great America—the Pride of Heaven!
Built of the columns of the ruined Past—
This Altar stood, where Tyrants' chains were riven,
And Freedom's laws established by the Free,
While offering up their hearts to Liberty.
XXI.
Their Orisons to pay,Gathered the Constellations of the Free—
The Thirteen Sovereign States, who helped to lay
Their great Palladium's Corner Stone, to be
To Future Generations all that they,
For Liberty, had sacrificed that Day.
XXII.
This Monumental Fane,As did the uncreated world in God's—
Lived archetypal in the souls of men;
Till, springing upward from the dim abodes
Of Thought, it stood, like Nature on the Night
Of Chaos, wonderful—star-spangled—bright!
XXIII.
And this is Freedom's Home—Adown whose sculpture-columned aisles there rolls—
(Peopling, with living Thought, the years to come—)
Man's eloquence in thunders!—to all souls,
Like an inspired Rhapsodist, sublime,
Speaking Life's Cyclic Poem through all time.
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XXIV.
David, whose harp was strungIn Zion for the service of the Lord,
Went up to Heaven before he died, with tongue
Lisping God's holy name—shouting that Word
Which loosed the Nations from Barbarity,
And made them live the Allies of the Free.
XXV.
That Word shall sleep no more,Until the Ocean-song of his great soul
Shall waft the waves of Truth to every shore—
Greening Man's soul with virtue as they roll—
Till all the nations of the world are taught
The billowy thunder-songs of his pure thought.
XXVI.
And that same Principle—Long imaged forth in words of Living Truth
Upon Messiah's lips—in quivering accents fell
From our forefathers, who, in deathless youth,
Planted on Plymouth's barren Rock the Tree
Which bore the First Fruits of our Liberty.
XXVII.
This principle lived stillIn Nature, like the lightning in the air,
Unseen, yet strong—awaiting but the will
To thunder—when oppression was stript bare—
To utter nakedness—debased with guilt—
Blasted with infamy—for blood long spilt.
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XXVIII.
Thy soul, intent to hear,Caught up the echoes of that Wondrous Voice—
From soul to soul, as light from star to star,
Rolling—till all were radiant to rejoice—
And through the labyrinthine aisles of earth
Spread the Great Truths which now are going forth.
XXIX.
The troubled multitude,Like Ocean impulsed by the Whirlwind's breath,
Or Hurricane, in the Autumnal wood,
Gathering the scattered leaves round Summer's death—
(As if the buried ages waked from sleep—)
Wondered that Truth so clear should be so deep!
XXX.
The lever once applied—Whose fulerum was the Rock of Ages—moved
The multitude to undulations!—wide
As is the world, that Wondrous Voice reproved
The guilty!—dove-winged for the years to come,
It now goes forth the Future to call home.
XXXI.
As Genius gathers fameAs Time rolls on—never to die on earth—
Till this broad world is peopled with his name—
(Circling creation in its goings forth,
Like radiance round the sun—) so will the Truth,
From Voice to Voice, live in eternal youth.
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XXXII.
What Shiloh uttered then—Now eighteen hundred years ago—whose tones
Are still vibrating in the minds of men,
Like lightning, in the thunder-peopled zones—
Shaking the earth it purifies—which rolls
As cradled upon sound—thy soul of souls
XXXIII.
Re-echoed to the Land!And, whirlwind-like, upon th' opprobrious earth,
Blew down Sin's Upas-tree, which dared withstand
The hurricane of thought, in going forth—
As lightning from its thunder-sheath made bare,
Withers the Oak it leaves forever sere.
XXXIV.
Up to the rolling spheresIt went, mingling with star-tones, which the Days
Repeated to the Months—the Months to Years—
(As Night to Night went forth to offer praise—)
The Years to Ages—Ages to all Time—
Time to Eternity—in tones sublime.
XXXV.
Ignorance, then, howling, fledBefore the Light of Knowledge, as the Night
Before the steps of Day—till, blindly led,
She sank in Truth's deep sea—far out right—
Whose waves closed round her, as the waves around
Th' Egyptian Cohorts in the Red Sea drowned!—
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XXXVI.
That glorious Nightingale,Who sang of Life, Death, Immortality,
With such celestial sweetness that the Vale
Of Death ran liquid music—Where is he?
He who was Young by name, as through all time—
Kindling the Stars with eloquence sublime?
XXXVII.
Where is that tuneful Tongue—Religion's Cicero—who set the soul on fire
With words of immortality?—who wrung
Confession from the Atheist's lips?—that Lyre,
Whose strings were deathless thoughts, which shed
Immortal music on the soul?—Not dead—
XXXVIII.
Alive—alive in Heaven!Leader of that Seraphic Host which sing
God's praises through the Eden-bowers of Even—
Drinking refreshing draughts from that sweet Spring
Which flows out of God's Everlasting Sea
To green the Joy-fields of Eternity.
XXXIX.
The thunder of his songReverberates through all High Heaven afar,
Sprinkling his genius, as it rolls along,
In sweet, melodious rain, as if some star
Had scattered down its spherèd song in light,
Dissolving gloriously the gloom of night.
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XL.
Like that Sorrowful Tree,Whose blossoms only flourish in the night,
Making the silence fragrant with its sea
Of odor—clouding darkness with the light
Of moon-lit incense—thou didst Heaven divine
With Music's love-unfolded Eglantine.
XLI.
Milton, that blind old “SireOf an immortal strain,” for Freedom sung,
Woke up the sleeping Nations with his Lyre—
Uttering deep Truths, which died not on his tongue,
Till Liberty's fierce torch, like Dragon's tongues,
Had set each soul on fire to know his wrongs.
XLII.
That blind RepublicanFirst showed the hireling of Charles Stuart's Court
That Liberty belonged to every Man—
That Prelacy was but the Devil's sport
To damn more souls—that all fiducial power
Was vested in the People as their Dower.
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XLIII.
His fame shall outlive years;For as some cloud is broken into rain
By lightning, her vile heart was into tears
By his immortal, soul-uplifting strain,
Radiant with holy love, which, from his soul,
In living thunders, burst from pole to pole.
XLIV.
Byron, that Bird of Jove,Perched on the Andes of immortal fame,
Called to the prostrate Nations from above,
To rise aloft in Liberty's great name,
And dash the clanking chains down from their slaves,
Trampling the bones of Tyrants in their graves!
XLV.
Greece heard his welcome voice,And kept the famished Anarch-wolves at bay,
Howling around her with obstreperous noise,
Ready to tear her heart out as their prey—
And cursed the hour that ever she was given
To fatten dogs—the meanest under Heaven.
XLVI.
As when some mighty Crane,With outstretched wings, scourging some thunder-cloud,
When chariotted by tempests from the main—
Upborne by whirlwinds, screaming now aloud,
Disturbs the stillness of the noontide air—
Was Europe by the voice of her despair!
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XLVII.
Marco Botzaris—heWho heard the thunder-shout afar—rose up,
And, by the trumpet-voice of Liberty,
Swore never more to drink the bitter cup
Which pledged a Tyrant's health—when down it fell—
Shattered to fragments on the Rock of Hell!
XLVIII.
Swords of Damascus steelGave he his hearts of oak, that Suliote Band,
When they went forth at midnight, thus to deal
Destruction on the Tyrants of their land!
And so he died, the bravest of the brave,
When Tyranny sank with him to the grave.
XLIX.
Oh! as the red-hot tideGushed from his broken heart, the frightened earth
Shook as when God was murdered! when he cried,
England! protect us!—But she came not forth!
No—spurned him from her unmaternal breast!
When did th' Oppressor ever aid th' opprest?
L.
Never were mortal menMore resolute—for they loved Freedom well,
And longed to look upon her face again—
When Moslem's Hell-anointed Cohorts fell
In hideous clangor round the path they trod,
Like Chaos melting at the glance of God!
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LI.
Shelly, that Human Dove,Who hymned the Dawn of Liberty with such
Celestial sweetness, Angels from above
Bent down to hear him—whose ethereal touch
So rained the soul of song out of his Lyre,
They took him up to Heaven to lead their choir—
LII.
When his loud harp was strung,His Halcyon thoughts, as when an Eagle springs,
Winnowing the labyrinthine space among
The stars—glinting, with his aspiring wings,
Their beams—with lightning swiftness thundered forth—
Raining immortal music down on earth.
LIII.
On earth he sang of LoveAnd Liberty Divine, which cannot die;
And now enjoys the real bliss above
Of his Ideal here exultingly—
While from his Amphionic harp the beams
Of melody descend through Heaven in streams.
LIV.
The lightning of his songDissolves the heart of Genius into tears,
As thunder shakes the world—until the wrong,
Which fed his soul with eloquence, appears
Our own, while over what he sung we sigh,
Mourning that any one so good could die!
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LV.
And now he is in Heaven,The Israfel among the Sons of Song,
Like Hesperns among the Stars of Even—
Great Shepherd, folding his Celestial Throng,
With lips all honeyed with the dews of love,
Into the Paradise of Bliss above.
LVI.
As yon bright Star of Even,Ascending, kindling in its rapid flight,
Forever to endure, till in High Heaven
It shines the Captain of the Host of Night;
So did thy glory-circled spirit climb
The Mount of Fame which overlooks all time.
LVII.
And there thy glorious form,In Apotheosis Divine, shall stand,
The gaze of Nations, while the thunder-storm
Shall sprinkle thee with lightnings, as thy hand,
Spread out above the future years to-come,
Shall beckon Genius to thy soul's pure home.
LVIII.
Thou, too, hast mourned, Sweet Dove!But wearest the aspect of immortal youth!
Thou art like Peace, begotten of Pure Love,
Nursed by Religion in the Bowers of Truth,
And on Ambrosia, which the months do bring,
Fed by the Spirit of Perpetual Spring.
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LIX.
Thou wert not born to die!The grave could feel no pride in burying thee!
Death would not dare to look thee in the eye—
Or, if he did, those smiles of purity,
Like streams of light descending from above,
Would melt his icy heart to tears of love!
LX.
Thy songs have been to meThe bright unfoldings of that glorious hope
Which blossomed in immortal bloom in thee;
Whose bud was, as young Passion burst it ope,
Frosted by Sorrow, which exhales perfume,
Of “tender smell,” time never shall consume.
LXI.
A spirit-sounding sigh—An aromatic sweetness of the heart,
Whose fragrant piety can never die—
Expressed in Poetry's Divinest art—
Was thy sweet Angel-music, full of love
And grief—deeper than Earth from Heaven above.
LXII.
Thy love was one deep sighBreathed from the depths of thine immortal soul—
Troubled with sorrow, which can never die,
While time shall last, or Music's waters roll
To grieve Man's heart with sorrow-joy—for how
Can Time affect that which delights him so?
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LXIII.
Like that sweet Bird of Night,Startling the ebon silence from repose,
Until the stars appear to burn more bright
From its excessive gush of song, which flows
Like some impetuous river to the sea—
So thou did'st flood the world with melody.
LXIV.
For, as the Evening StarPants with its “silver lightnings” for the high
And Holy Heavens—the Azure Calm afar—
Climbing with labor now the bending sky,
To lead Night's Navy through the upper sea—
So thou didst thirst for immortality.
LXV.
As underneath the sky,Sad Autumn, the Religion of the year,
Mourns that her sister Spring should ever die,
Whose summer-ripeness in the Fall grows sere,
As beauty by the grave—so do we mourn
For thee, Lost One! who never canst return!—
LXVI.
Shakspeare, the God of Song,Stands on the Pyramid of Sciences,
Sublimely throned—with hand above the throng,
Who come to worship him, outstretched, to bless
Their pilgrimage with wisdom from his store,
Whose Archives are the world's collected lore.
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LXVII.
The ocean deep of TruthHe sounded, sounded never so before—
Bringing up Pearls which an immortal youth
Had purchased him, which he, upon Time's shore,
With liberal hand, has scattered, of great price
To Man—worth more than Rubies to the Wise.
LXVIII.
From the deep Healing WellsOf Wisdom, fathomed not by any line,
Save his deep-diving thought, he plucked up Shells
Of such great price that they were called Divine,
And such Celestial Music made, his name,
Among th' Eternal, bought immortal fame.
LXIX.
Wherever Thought had been,Searching on wildest wing for hidden Lore,
He went, discursive, Eagle-winged, again,
And better found, where others searched before,
Jewels, which they had left behind, which he
Bestowed on Man for Immortality.
LXX.
That which the World thought best,Was by his poorest bettered, till mankind
Not only wondered how he was possessed
Of such great knowledge—feasting every mind,
Already fat, to fatness—but how men
Ever had lived without him until then.
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LXXI.
His soul was like the sea,Self-purifying, where his Thoughts, launched forth,
Became the Jewel-laden Argossy—
Freighted with all the Merchandise of earth—
Which he unloaded on the Wharf of Time—
Piling it up in Mountain-heaps sublime.
LXXII.
Two hundred years ago,Had he not lived, the World had been behind
Two hundred years—the Present knows this so—
For all was Chaos, till his God-like Mind
Moved on the formless nothing of the Past,
When Wisdom's World stood forth, soul-girdled—vast!—
LXXIII.
We heard an Angel's wingsHovering at night above thy dying bed—
Shaking sweet dews of comfort, as from strings
Of gold falls song, upon thy pillowed head—
Making sweet music—soft as is the light
Rained from the Moon upon the dark of night.
LXXIV.
And when thy breath was gone,We heard him soaring to the Western Star!
We listened to his music, all as one,
Till it was lost in silence in the air!
When all grew still!—so still, that every breath
Seemed stopt by that one glorious death!
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LXXV.
We heard our own hearts beat,And each the other's answered, as we stood
Listening for those dumb accents, once so sweet;
And feeling for those pulsings of rich blood
Whose life-imparting properties were gone—
Leaving thy heart within as cold as stone!
LXXVI.
Yes! thou art now at rest!The labor of thy Week of Life is done!
And in the Sabbath of the skies, possessed
Of an immortal joy, thou art to run
No more the race of glory, for the prize
Of Heaven is won—how dazzling to thine eyes!
LXXVII.
Æons of Æons thouShalt live throned in thy Country's grateful heart—
Forever more divine as thou art now—
A spirit never from her to depart;
For thou art with the Truth, which thou didst love,
Coupled, as God is with the Heavens above.
LXXVIII.
For thou wert like, on earth,That glorious Diamond which the Shepherd found,
Who looked upon it as of little worth;
And as its Heavenly radiance scattered round
His ignorant way the whitest beams of light,
So thou didst Wisdom on the World's dark night.
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LXXIX.
Dark—moaning in the wind—The Cypress flings its shadow on his grave,
Where lies the Temple of his mighty mind,
Whose glory is as bright as he was brave—
The echo of whose name is heard afar—
Far as the Eastern from the Western Star.
LXXX.
Never to come on earth—Never to visit us in Time again—
A spiritual body—thou shalt wanton forth
In endless being, righteous to remain—
A God-anointed soul to live all pure,
As long as His own life-time shall endure.
LXXXI.
Never to come again—Never, while earth remains what it is now—
Nor while the sunbeams fall from Heaven like rain,
To raise up flowers to deck her dusky brow;
Nor while the Stars shall their wide Cycles roll—
Wilt thou return, great Chastener of the soul!
LXXXII.
We need not look for thee!Thou hast fulfilled the object of thy birth,
And been on earth what thou wert made to be—
A holy man—one, who adorned the earth,
And made it better than it would have been,
Hadst thou not lived—thou wilt not come again!
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LXXXIII.
No, never will thy voiceWake up the heart to ecstacies again!
Nor make those who once loved thee here, rejoice
That thou wert born—whose absence now is pain!
Not through the long, long trying years to-come,
Wilt thou return, to this, thy native home!
LXXXIV.
Farewell!—No more on earth,Through all succeeding time, wilt thou be seen
Among mankind! for thou hast had one birth—
One death—the mother of that birth to men
Which shall not die—for life to Man was given
That he might pass through death to life in Heaven.
LXXXV.
Upon the Willow-tree,Weeping above thy grave, my harp shall hang—
Silent as death—till taken down by me
To sing again the Dead, like him who sang
For Adonais, whom the World did wrong,
With the swift thunders of his Orphic Song.
“In the Island of Goa, near Bombay, there is a singular vegetable called the Sorrowful Tree, because it only flourishes in the night. At sunset no flowers are to be seen, and yet, half an hour after, it is quite full of them. They yield a sweet smell; but the sun no sooner begins to shine upon them, than some of them fall off, and others close up, and thus it continues flowering in the night during the whole year.”—
Payne's Universal Geography.“This Diamond was found near Adrianople, among some ruins, by a Shepherd, who made use of it above a year to strike fire from to light his pipe. It was valued at more than two hundred purses.”—
A. De La Motray's Travels.Shelley, the golden-mouthed Swan of Albion, who mourned for his beloved friend Keats, in an Elegy entitled “Adonais.”
The following beautiful lines, from the glorious Petrarch, are truly applicable to him:
“In nobil sangue, vita umile e queta,Ed in alto intelletto un puro core;
Frutto senile in sul giovenil fiore,
E in aspetto pensoso, unima lieta.”
| Eonchs of ruby. A Gift of Love | |