University of Virginia Library

Old, dim Churchyard! I greet thee, while I feel
Thy sobering, saddening influence o'er me steal
With half a painful, half a pleasing power,
Ev'n in the lustrous glow of this glad hour.
The morning's warm luxuriance of delight
Meets here a solemn check, a dreamy blight,
Ev'n from this haunted spot! Yet, while we own
The pensive gloom around these precincts thrown,
A gentle vein of calm and tender thought
Is to the entranced mind serenely brought.—
A mournful place it is! The long grass waves
Freshly and wildly o'er the hamlet's graves:
Sad in the midst, a ruined church-tower stands,
Long since, by bold and sacrilegious bands,
Defaced and desecrated; and by hands
Deemed pious!—'t was the Commonwealthsmen laid
These altars bare, and sternly disarrayed
The House of God of all its seemly show,
Daring those dedicated walls to o'erthrow.
And now, how sadly touching is the scene
Where Peace dwells deep, where fiery War hath been!
Ruin and Death, here join in ghastly state,
And look in Day's bright face with gloomy hate;
But Death and Ruin yet shall view a day
Which must dissolve their icy bonds away!
How vainly the Earth's green, flowery robe seems spread,
Even like a royal mantle, round the dead!
Vainly for them, in truth;—for us, not so;
Since gently cheering is the vernal glow,
The fresh and living beauty spread around,
The balmy odours rising from the ground.
Ay! by these fairy-like, slight wilding-flowers,
Nature's sweet nurselings, the offspring of glad hours,
Exuberantly glorified each tomb,
Each lowly mound appears; their bright, soft bloom
Doth clothe the dust in a divine array,
Embalming, sanctifying dull decay—
And soothing, softening all our moody fears,
Until the cheek is wet with peaceful tears.
For ghastly images, that haunt us there,
Bringing bright images all pure and fair,—
Hopes, blossoming with those blossoms; thoughts serene,
That share the holy quiet of the scene,
Thus, gentle influences with solemn blend;
Thus, peaceful visions soothe us, and befriend:
We look beyond life's cloud-encircled end—
On death, indeed, we muse; but while we muse,
Invest it with more soft, more lovely hues,
And see the Angel standing by the grave,
To guard, to bless, to hallow, and to save!
Oh! Death and Love—oh! Love and Death—how close
Ye cling in the fierce war-embrace of foes!
How sadly, strangely ye're together twined
For ever on the earth—how do ye bind
The myrtle and sad cypress in one wreath,
In joyless union leagued;—Love! Love and Death!
Old, green Churchyard! but rustic tombs are found
Within the precincts of your hallowed ground:
No cypress trees o'erhang these mossy graves,
With their dark glory of funereal leaves;
No laboured monuments attesting rise
Between Man's sacred ashes and the Skies;
No lengthened and elaborated phrase,
With prodigality of specious praise,
Scoring the marble o'er some slumbering head,
Misleads the Living here, and mocks the Dead:
No mouldering banners hang, in idle pride,
These simple tombs, these rustic graves beside;
Nor sculptured mourner here for ever stands,
With urn uplifted in the uplifted hands;—
These things are found not here; they are not found
Within the precincts of this hallow'd ground.
But mighty is the neighbourhood of death—
Mighty to chain the thoughts—to hush the breath—
To check the very pulses in their play,
And stop the wanderer on his onward way—
Mighty to arrest the Fancy's rapid wings—
To chill the quick and freely gushing springs
Of thought and feeling, in the heart and mind;
And yet to make them purer, more refined;
More stainless, and more innocently clear,
Though trembling, gathering, shrinking to a tear!
The golden summer heavens, with roseate flush,
Make the earth a glory now—and the air, a blush;
The whispering breezes, soft and fragrant, pass,
Ruffling to gentlest waves the murmurous grass;
The mirthful song-birds fill the dreamy calm
With music, that might fall like blessed balm
Of healing influence on the wrung heart's wounds,
The soul's sore hurts,—so heavenly are the sounds!
On every side the laughing sunbeams play,
Ev'n o'er that ruined church-tower coldly grey;
On every side they sparkling, shoot, and dance—
Each glowing charm of nature to enhance—
In unobstructed freedom: (no bowered shades,
No leafy canopies, no close arcades,
Here form a rich and labyrinthine mass,
Through which the delicate breeze doth sighing pass—
Through which the sunbeam, like a scymetar,
Making each dew-drop glitter like a star,
Its luminous way in joyous triumph cleaves!—
Piercing the enwreathed perplexity of leaves—
The Gordianed knots of thick-pleached, matted boughs—
As the keen arrow its sharp passage ploughs!)
In vain for man, this fair and full display
Of splendours and delights, in glad array:
In vain for man,—since Death, strong Death, is nigh—
The all-shadowing gloom, the great arch-mystery!
His wrecks, his spoils, his ghastly trophies drear,
Saddening the spot, frown all too sternly near.
Apostrophising him in the atmosphere
Of his dread presence, with fond sighs, we stand,
And own his sway of mystical command!
And mighty is his neighbourhood, in truth,
The soul's impetuous waves to lull and smoothe.
O, Death! thou haughtiest, and thou mightiest One!—
Thou that makest all this rolling world thy throne,
And circlest round the sun—the glorious sun—
Still with the circling earth! intent to run,
With shining worlds, the high and wondrous race—
Casting thy shadows in that sun's bright face,
And challenging his warm rays to revive
The unconscious dust, that once did breathe and live!
Thou draggest thy victims pitilessly down,
Where lowers black midnight's heaviest, blackest frown;
Where no commiserable friends may come
To soothe or share the horrors of their doom,
Until they shrink into a mutual tomb!
Thou hold'st the glass up to the Bright—the Fair—.
To the most Beautiful; and mirror'd there
They see themselves, until they shrink aghast,
And own their black deformity at last.—
And thou too beggarest, wholly beggarest those
Whose coffers groaned with treasure—whose repose
Was broken up by fear of midnight-thieves!
Thou beckonest,—and at once the Trembler leaves
The amassed and glittering wealth he loved so well,
To lie down in the cold and narrow cell,
In naked destitution; while, behold!
The spoiler and the spendthrift seize his gold!
His counsel is not asked, nor his consent,
On plans and on designs self-nurtured bent,
They speed from hand to hand the coin he stored,
For use, or avarice' unproductive hoard!—
Thou biddest the young, the thoughtless, and the gay,
From the fair scenes of joyance come away;
And straightway that harsh mandate they obey:
And, for the halls of Pleasure—for the sound
Of harps, the blaze of lamps, the ringing bound
Of dancers' feet, the festal wreaths of flowers,
The honeyed converse of those brilliant hours,
The gay carousal of the banquet-room,
The song, the laugh, the splendour, the perfume—
They have the sullen stillness of the tomb!
Thou stopp'st the Conqueror on his high career:
Thou breathest, and his laurels all grow sere;
And, withering, leave his brow for thy deep cloud,
Beneath whose heavy gloom 't is darkly bowed.
He loved the rustling banners—the shrill blast
Of brazen trumpets, pealing far and fast—
The loud, full war-cry;—now, he shuddering hears
Thy still, small voice, low-murmuring in his ears:
His mind preyed on Excitement!—chastened, schooled,
That mind is now; that fiery Thought is cooled;
And, tamed by dull Exhaustion, low he bends,
And wild Ambition's hope for ever ends!
He was a lover of the war-array;
And joyed to gaze, upon the battle-day,
Along the martial lines, the glorious tide
Of billowy-heaving chivalry's plumed pride.
But now, to this he shuts his heavy eyes;
And midst thy midnight-gloom of shadows lies!
Nor shall the trumpet's clang, the banner's sweep,
The steed's loud tramp—e'er rouse him more from sleep.
Death! all of great, of glorious, and of high,
Submits to thee, beneath the o'er-arching sky.
Valour takes thee for his undoubted lord;
To thee yields up his red and reeking sword;
And vails to thee his proudly nodding plume,
That shone through Battle's dull, sulphureous gloom.
And Sorrow—unto thee, pale Sorrow brings
The last, wild, desperate hope to which she clings;
The shrouded agonies of long, long years;
And all the costly treasures of her tears:
Haply, to her more dear than glittering mass
Of gold in miser's eyes!—Alas, alas!
And this for ever is—for ever was—
For ever shall be;—yet, not so! Away!—
Forefend the ignoble thought: there comes a day—
An awful day; there comes a solemn hour—
When this shall not be; when the fearful power,
Long delegated, kingly Death! to thee—
The Pride, the Victory, and the Sovereignty—
Shall be reft from thee—and for evermore:
When thou shalt render back—shalt all restore,
The treasures thou hadst silently amassed;—
And the Tremendous Secret of the Past
Shalt yield up—shalt unlock!—from Thee and Night
Released, to Revelation and the Light.
Then, Mighty Mightiest One! even thou shalt learn
Utter submissiveness; 't will be thy turn
To start—to shrink—to tremble and to fail;
To yield—and like thy meanest victim, quail!
But now, the signs and tokens of thy sway
Are ever round us; so we may not stray
O'er the green, laughing bosom of our earth,
Without thy mournful hints to mar our mirth:
Still the discoloured flower, the withering leaf,
The fading rainbow, the red sunset brief,
The exhausted fountain, and the vanishing cloud—
Remind us of the charnel-house and shroud.
And let it be so!—yea, so be it still;
Since lordly man must die, let thy cords thrill
Oh, Nature! with a sympathetic swell—
Yes! strange and wondrous as it is, 't is well.
Painful 't would be, to mark the unfading flower,
Free from the sway of Nature's changeful hour,
Amidst the haunts whence Love's reluctant heart
Hath, aching, known its precious things, depart;—
Painful, to mark the immortal rose take root
From the dull burial-sod, where, cold and mute,
The friends—the sweet friends of our youth, perchance,
Are laid, in dreamless rest, in hopeless trance;—
Bitter, to see the rainbow's tints endure,
When gentle hues, more delicately pure—
Hues of young hope, of love and calm delight—
Fade, alter, vanish from our longing sight—
When the warm flush on Beauty's brow dies fast,
As though too lovely, and too loved, to last—
The spiritually soft and tender streak
Grows dim on Youth's smooth, efflorescent cheek;—
Mournful, to view the fabric of a cloud
Stand strong,—while bow the stately and the proud
To the Destroyer,—and the exhaustless spring
Its rainbowed spray fantastically fling,
In joy around; so, scattering everywhere
Freshness and Promise:—yea! save only there,
Where our Life's promise withered, faded, shrunk,
Like some sweet star, midst vapoury cloud-wreaths sunk;—
Where our Soul's living freshness, parched, destroyed,
Left the earth a desert, and this life a void!
That Freshness and that Promise—which nor rain,
Nor breeze, nor sunshine, can restore again:
And sad't would be, a never-setting sun,
To view, when hopes are few, and joys are none;
When Desolation yawns our footsteps round,
And throbs the bosom, with some recent wound—
Sad, strangely sad, these things would be in sooth,
And well it is, 't is not so! the great Truth
Is shadowed forth—'t is mirrored, echoed, blent
With all things, wheresoe'er our steps are bent—
Our looks are cast, our thoughts are drawn—and man
Is minded still, his life is but a span!
Young bard! bring here thy many-sounding lyre,
Instinct with Kingly Harmonies; respire,
This gravely-pleasing air, till high and higher
Its starry themes shall soar, its matchless themes;
And all the passion of mysterious dreams,
That stir thy frame with rapture—thence shall gain
A holier, deeper might,—till thy high strain
Of soul-electrifying fire and force,
Shall rush, like torrents on their sounding course,
While thou this air respirest, fraught with death,
If Faith, deep Faith breathe, kindling on thy breath;
Faith—nursing-mother of the Soul supreme,
Bearing it up through many a wildering dream,
Through many a sharp-besetting, haunting ill,
Supporting it, and cherishing it still;
Unfolding endless vistas to its view;
Unfolding them, illuminating too—
Making that soul bright Concord's haunt serene,
A tranquil ark of rest; a cloudless scene;
And while within its depths all conflicts cease—
A perfect Paradise of inborn peace!
And strengthening it, to steer through billowy time
Unhurt, untired, by such high aid sublime
Sustained; so shall it fail not, nor secede,
Until it gains the goal and wins the meed;
So shall it never droop, nor shrink, nor yield,
Till it hath laboured out life's hard-won field.
Yea! Faith; if thou exalt the poet's mind,
If thy pure wealth be in its depths enshrined,
If thou'rt its holy guest, and thou its guide
'Mongst life's bleak wildernesses, wild and wide!
Then, then shall it be girt with solemn power,
And win a high and everlasting dower;
And put on glory, and firm strength assume,
And in Hope's daring, calm defy the Tomb,
(For ev'n Death's strange deformity shall fail
To wring with fear, hearts clad in that pure mail!)
Then, then shall it the palm of Victory snatch,
And Inspiration's loftiest fervours catch,
That breathes most rich contagion on the air,
Above, beneath, around us, everywhere,
If but the sense be quickened to perceive,
The heart to feel, to acknowledge, to believe;
Then shall it mount rejoicingly on high,
And shoot the gulphs of time and tread the sky.
Bring here thy haughty-sounding lyre, young Bard!
And its fine chords shall send through night the starred,
Or noon the cloudless—or the dreamy calm
Of twilight, bathed with odorous dews of balm—
A deep compelling tone, a conquering sound,
Wakening the solitary echoes round.
For is not this the Treasure-hold, the Field
Which shall to Heaven the immortal harvest yield?
Is not this narrow Kingdom of the Past,
The only kingdom that secure shall last?—
These subterranean strong-holds of the Tomb,
The barriered haunts, where Death no more can come?
Shall not the dust beneath thy feet that lies—
To put on splendour, and great strength arise?
Yea! a compelling and victorious strain
Send forth—send fearless forth! a solemn vein
Shall run through that proud Harmony; rejoice—
And lift in triumph up thy potent voice!
Breathings of Immortality shall burn
Through every hymn-note! showered as from an urn
Clear waters might be showered—fast, fresh, and bright,
From thy rich lyre-strings—strains of the Living Light,
Quick dreams of Fire, winged words of the arrowy Wind—
The arrowy Wind—that leaves e'en Thought behind;
Tones of the surging Tide—the dark and strong,
Out-swelling, loud, reverberating, long—
Shall stream—till Nature's self shall mix her voice
With thine! Pour forth thy strain! be strong! rejoice!
A strain, such as the morning stars—the sons
Of power and glory, sang with their full tones,
(Till all the heights and depths gave forth reply—
Earth, Ocean, Air, and all the listening Sky,)
With their fresh, mighty voices—deep and pure,
O'er a Creation that doth still endure,
In all its pristine pride of strength, light, bloom—
As it contained no ashes—bore no tomb;
As though no marks were scored upon its breast,
Where battling elements in fierce unrest
Careered of old—and in their savage wrath,
Too oft left nought but deserts in their path;
Where fulminating forth its fiats dread,
The horrent Tempest, mad and ravening, spread;
Where subterranean fires—fires, deep enshrined
In the Earth's own heart of hearts, slow undermined,
Foundations of her capital cities, strewed
In riddled ashes o'er th' awed solitude,
Those dire memorials on her surface traced
Themselves are in their turn destroyed, effaced-
By after-growths exuberant—thus behold,
How oft while Ages their vast wings unfold,
Are brightly blotted out, those blots of old!
Are not these things enough to awake, to inspire?
To bid high Poet themes swell ampler, higher?
To make the mind that hath their truth avowed,
Transcendently more lofty and more proud;
And with rich kindlings of amazement fraught—
To bid outleap the young Bard's glowing thought,
Until that thought streams like some beamy zone,
Round the sun's self! and glory not its own
Lends it even in the pride of purple noon—
When changeless it appears,—to set how soon!
Though Death hath battled with this world so long;
Still, oh! how fresh, how vivid, and how strong
Its store of boundless charms it doth display,
And spread exulting to the light of day.
Elastic from his touch it springs,—behold!
His very haunts steeped in the burning gold
Of flowery bloom—his footsteps bathed in light;
As though Earth laughed in mockery, and despite
Of all the accumulated ills she had borne
From his strong hand, since her creation morn.
Lo! she receives him as an honoured guest,
Decked in a shining and resplendent vest—
Nor doth remit one glory, nor one charm,
While thick around, her glowing wild-flowers swarm;
And his approach with fearless smiles she greets,
All rife and redolent of breathing sweets.
These living, breathing sweets, that never cloy!
For Dust and Ashes—Beauty, Splendour, Joy;
For aching Emptiness—Luxuriance wild;
For loathsome, black Corruption's treacherous stealth,
Fragrance, and Purity, and radiant Wealth
She brightly gives—nor in this quiet spot,
Is that calm glory or that grace forgot!—
Ay, Poet! hither come! a freshness laves
These unpretending, humble Churchyard graves,—
A freshness found not, where refulgent shrines
Tower 'midst the Tomb's veiled tenants—and where shines
The pomp of funeral splendours—by the light
Of ever-burning lamps, that make the night
Of Shadows and of Death more fearful still;
And teach the gazer's pulse more painfully to thrill!
Here, fair is noon in sunshine or in showers,
Lovely is evening here at shut of flowers—
Lovely the lull of night in star-light hours.
(Oh, fairest hours! when those deep stars appear,
Eternity outshining from each sphere—
The orb'd crowns and palms, the arch-roses and the flowers,
The golden trophies and the eternal towers
Of no frail earth-born Sovereigns! Not to fade—
And not to be cast down nor reft—were made
Those glories of the everlasting skies;
But still to shine, in mortals', angels' eyes—
—By no o'erwhelming bolt nor lightnings riv
The burning, golden Heraldry of Heaven!)
And the red kindling of bright Morning's smiles—
(Repulsed from shadowy old cathedral-aisles,
And damp chill vaults, and charnel-galleries dark—
Where they that once were mighty, cold and stark
Repose; with crests and banners, o'er their tombs
Mournfully glimmering, through the impending glooms,)—
Glows here, as shot from cloudless worlds above
Whose circumambient air's the breath of Love!
And every season here hath its own charm
To soothe the mind, to win, and to disarm.
Even Winter, harsh, and boisterous, and severe,
Appears to doff his sternest terrors here;
And softly, softly o'er these grass-graves fall
His noiseless snows—a pure and dazzling pall
For those who sleep beneath — more fair, more bright,
That glittering sheet of clear and cloudless white,
Than thick embroidered massive pall of state,
Whose gorgeous crimson gloom, hangs like a weight
On dim, rich antique pavements;—and the Spring!
The sweet, sweet Spring! her days of flowering bring
The hues of Hope to this spot's green repose—
Death's desert laughs, and blossoms like the rose,
When she in Heaven and Earth—smiles, breathes, and glows!
Red Summer, too, her festal skies divine,
Like a magnific roof, hung o'er it shine—
And Autumn casts a golden, golden gleam
Athwart the scene, then melts off like a dream!

Dim Churchyard Graves! a thousand thoughts ye bring,
And o'er them all a misty lustre fling—
And round them all, a dubious charm ye cast,
Whether of present, future, or the past.
The present! what hath that to do beside
These sad and solemn mounds, wherein abide
The Beings of lost years? and yet, is 't not
The key-stone and the main-spring of our lot?
The hinge, the link, the bridge? hath time not shewn
'Tis all in truth, that we can call our own?
And on that mighty Present, must depend
The everlasting Future; the great end
Of all our hopes, our dreams, and our desires—
Snatch it, embrace it now, ere it expires—
Embrace it—ah! it vanishes, it dies!
Not so! with its dread burthen fast it flies,
And with its mighty message to the skies!
'Tis of more value than the Orient's mines
Wherein the red gold flames, the diamond shines—
Of more transcendent worth, and precious more,
Than fruitful lands, or riches' boundless store;
Than wealth of kingdoms, or than spoils of war.
And oh! how melts it from our hold, how fast
It sinks away, and mingles with the Past.
Seize it, and strain it with a giant's grasp!
Still 't will, receding, 'scape from that strong clasp—
But so shalt thou triumphantly extort
Its preciousness and value, in such sort
That thine shall be its highest, holiest worth,
By those keen efforts joyfully drawn forth.
Mystery! that dost thy shadowy threads entwine,
With Life's vast woof, in many a mazy line.
Oh, Mystery, Mystery! thou art all we see;
All that we are, or have been, or shall be!
Thy veil, thy cloud, dost thou for ever cast,
O'er Future, Present, and the silent Past!
Yet man still labours to extend thy reign;
And cloud with thee what shines most brightly plain.
So will not I; but with meek, teachable eyes,
Read the unclasp'd volume of the Earth and Skies.
Oh, Heaven!—the things most hidden from our sight,
Hast thou displayed, in characters of light!
The astounding truths the unaided thought had failed
To scale, or ev'n to touch, hast thou unveiled!
Oh, Heaven!—the things we see not, thou hast made
To be in more than sunshine's blaze arrayed:
Those things, which are from mortal ken concealed,
Hast thou, through lips inspired, declared — revealed;
Revealed to all, if, with Faith's steadfast eye,
They gaze!—then Doubt, and darkling Mystery,
Yield up the cloudy terrors of their reign;
And all that most imports shines forth most brightly plain!
And ye! pale, sheeted tenants of these tombs—
Arisen from Life's dull yoke, and various dooms;
Could ye, for one deep moment, but return
To this fair Earth, how much might we not learn
From the unsealing of those long-locked lips!—
Much that should melt chill Mystery's dense eclipse!
Much that should pierce the soul, and wake and rouse
Ev'n from the dwellers in this lowly house
Of death, where silent generations meet,
Nor break the silence, each new guest to greet!
Here sleeps, perchance, the infant, whose warm breath
A lightning-moment played—then sank in death:
That lived; but of deep human life knew nought;
Unconscious all of feeling, or of thought:
Whose ray of being, trembling into dawn,
Was seen one instant, and the next withdrawn.
Oh! surely, surely blessed, to depart
Ere one sharp pang had wrung the awakening heart!
Surely, most favoured, to be brightly spared
The troubled fates such countless throngs have shared!
To be thus wafted,—thus dissolved away,
Ere stained by contact with this human clay:
By conscious contact; for that unmatured,
That dawning soul knew not 't was thus immured.
And now, that youthful spirit may have soared
Where Angels have stood still; and saints, adored,
With breathlessness of adoration—(poured
In fervent silence, and with thrilling awe)—
And gazed on more than Prophet-Elders saw,
In times of old;—whether in visions deep,
Vouchsafed unto their richly-broken sleep;
Or in the passion of some raptured trance—
When Mystery's depths lay bared before their glance
Some dread Apocalypse—some waking dream,
Ethereal, and refulgent, and supreme;
Hurling its dazzling glories on their sight,
Sublime: at once, a Darkness and a Light!
Yea! that young, sinless spirit may have flown,
Where spread the blazing shadows round The Throne!

Here, Woman—woman the devoted, lies.—
Love, and her fervent spirit, to yon rich skies
Together took their high, their joyful way,
To hail, at last, the pure and perfect day!
Here, Woman—woman the devoted, sleeps.—
No more Love's vigil, Care's keen watch she keeps:
No more shall fear on her heart's pulses press;
Nor her unconquerable tenderness
Weigh down her head of beauty, nor enchain
Her life with feelings too akin to pain:
No more Dissimulation shall beguile;
Nor Treachery smile, and murder with a smile;
Nor base Ingratitude contemn and spurn;
Nor Faithlessness consign her soul to mourn!
But that bright, winged, and starry nature, blest
At once with freedom, triumph, and with rest,
Rejoins its kindred spirits; and resigns
Each care, that with humanity entwines.
Oh, Woman!—hast thou not for ever been
Pilgrim and Martyr of Earth's troublous scene?
The wandering Dove, expelled from its high home;
Condemned, how oft! o'er wilds and wastes to roam!
The sorrows of the affections—deep and true,
Have scathed thee still, with heart-wounds ever new.
The sorrows of the affections—warm and wild,
And mightiest in a bosom undefiled,
Which beats with lofty and with lovely zeal—
But for another's nearer, dearer weal—
Its whole existence but to endure; to feel—
Its all of feeling—one bright torrent—poured
In one pure channel, ruled by powers adored.
In luxury of devotedness, sublime,
Thou 'st moved, sweet Exile! thus, through stormy time,
Sweet Exile!—bright Exotic!—tasked to bear
This hollow life's too barren, bitter air.
Do not all pure enchantments meet in thee,
That frame a Universe of Majesty?
Are not the Orient's sun-bursts full enshrined
In thy deep glance? Dost thou not brightly bind
Thy brow with starry glories? Dost thou not seem
Complexioned with the morning, when her beam
Is cloudless; and the clear, transparent air,
Doth only sunshine, rosy sunshine, wear?
And doth not thy most richly precious hair,
Bear, upon every bright and burnished fold,
The dazzling lustres of the shining gold?
Doth not the festal, beatific rose,
Along thy cheek its tenderest tints disclose?
And all this for the cold world—colder dust?
Oh! Woman makes not this bleak earth her trust!
In life, to deathless Love her faith is given;
And, to the unfailing guardianship of Heaven,
Each narrower hope (if aught of narrow dwells
In that devoted bosom's secret cells),
Each more self-centred trust, each closer view,
Is tranquilly resigned: the fond, the true,
The meekly brave, the unalterably kind—
So moves o'er earth; and doth serenely bind
A holy armour round her fragile frame:
And though, alas! through wrong, through scorn, through blame,
Haply, her pathway may be found to lead;
That holy armour proves defence indeed!

And not because of meek extraction, these,
Whose grass-graves murmur to the tuneful breeze,
Did they, in their calm sphere, less brightly move;
Less blessed by nature, or less true to love.
The Peasant's ancestorial threshold-stone,
His hearth, his board,—had all around them thrown
A light, from that pure presence: the soft smile
Of loving woman meekly did beguile
The languid weariness of the evening hour,
When sought the o'er-laboured Hind the household bower.
The fascinations of her radiant glance—
The affectionate sweetness of her countenance—
The angelic modulations of her voice—
Bade weariness, and care itself, rejoice;
And gently lulled the harassing train of woes
That wait upon the poor, to calm repose:
So like some violet, whose rich, dreamy scent
Emparadises all the element;
(The embracing element of silvery air,
So fraught and laden with those odours rare;)
Hidden in leafy nook, unseen—remote—
While round its haunts those blessed breathings float!
Might woman—humble, holy woman—seem,
The Grace, the Charm, the Gladness, and the Dream
In the still homesteads, where the Peasant dwells;
'Midst the dim woods, or in the sheltered dells!
Old, green Churchyard! what mournful stillness sleeps
Upon you, and around!—those mouldering heaps,
Those silent mounds, with wordless eloquence
They preach unto the heart, and chase vain dreams from thence.
Humble indeed is this sequestered spot;
But shared they not Humanity's dim lot,
Who dwell therein? Yea! closely do they bear
Relationship to all the Sons of Care!
The tenants of these lowly tombs have ties
Of brotherhood with every corse—that lies
Awaiting that tremendous judgment-call
Addressed to each—and understood by all
Beneath Earth's surface, in the silent dust,
Where sunbeam pierces not, nor sweeping gust:
Whether it be in churchyards green and lone—
Like this, beneath the grey and mouldering stone;
Or where up-soar the heaven directed spires,
From proud Cathedrals, like Man's high desires—
(Meeting half-way the lightning's arrowy fires;
As though to deprecate the Almighty Wrath
Of Heaven—to stay them on their ruthless path—
Those fearful messengers of Fate and Death,
And sheathe them, as a reeking sword ye sheathe,)
—From proud Cathedrals, midst great cities' Towers—
Where ceaseless tumult fills the busy hours,—
Whether where Europe's fertile landscapes spread,
Or Afric's skies display their sultry red—
Or green Columbia's world of shade expands—
Or brightly shine the old, Royal glorious lands
Of golden Asia! (once how proud, how great,
How beautiful ev'n in her fallen estate—
Yea! beautiful as when enthroned she sate.
Though all her constellated Glories proud,
Are shrunk, and folded in a covering cloud—
And reft are all the triumphs of her reign;
Alas, that Empire's proudest beams should wane!
And mortals, mortals dare impeach their lot,
And marvel they should be, and straight are not!
Loved to be lost, and known to be forgot!)
Or, 'mongst th' old, stern, high mountain-solitudes—
Amidst the straights, or by the swelling floods—
Or in the glooms of dark resounding woods,
Finding that deep, unbroken, full repose,
Pause of all pain, and end of all their woes;
Or where the desert's sterile breadths outstretch,
And sandy columns 'whelm the prostrate wretch;
Or in bright spice-isles, 'midst the ocean set,
Round which the blue waves creep with murmurous fret,
Whose fresh scents bid the sailor not forget
His native mother-earth's own fragrant breast;
But woo him, hail him, like a welcome guest—
And softly speed on willing winds a charm,
To glad the gentle, and the stern disarm;
Or from their native air, their native earth—
Afar—and from those scenes they loved from birth—
Shroudless and tombless, the loud waves beneath,
Of that dread Sea—stern element of wrath!
That mighty Ocean—where the tribes of death
Lie, hid from every eye—from dream and thought;
Yes! where lost thousands unrestored, unsought,
Lie hid from the rejoicing, golden skies,
And all their rich and dazzling mysteries—
The Sun's great countenance, in strength arrayed,
The beatific brightness there displayed!
But there shall surely come that awful day,
Which shall dissolve the watery worlds away—
And Time's impetuous flight at once suspend;
And in one dire confusion sternly blend
The affrighted elements, till Chaos spread
Afresh her boundless horrors, doubly dread—
And make the great Stars lour forth dim and dun,
Like fragment-reliques of a ruined Sun—
A day, which shall convene those myriads all
Beneath a sky—great Nature's funeral-pall;
Or from the sounding Ocean's dismal caves,
Or from the wide Earth's multitudinous graves—
By rock, by cave, by torrent, or by tree,
Or where the cities' sea-like murmurs be—
In waste or wilderness, or mount, or plain,
Where'er the spectre holds his silent reign,
And rest the members of the mighty clan,
The countless, boundless family of Man.
Yes, mossy graves! the embers you enfold,
Have fellowship with all, Earth's still depths hold—
All that in death's vast mansions do abide,
All that are rocked by the Eternal tide—
All that are laid beneath the covering turf;
Slave, Schoolsman, Savage, Sovereign, Chief, or Serf!
Life's Circumnavigators, who have been,
And ranged and rounded her revolving scene—
Absolved their destinies—resigned their place
To never-failing myriads of their race,
Who but re-act their parts, their steps retread,
Till joined to them—the Dead unto the Dead;
Till mingled with the dust of ages past,
With black Oblivion's shadows round them cast.
Oh, what a world of ashes lies beneath
Earth's surface;—what a Vasty World of Death!
Oh, what a mixed and marvellous Company
Thronged in the Under earth, where none can see!
Oh, what a strange Assembly!—what a court
Of kingliest Death, whereunto all resort!
The Just, the Good, the Mighty, and the Mean—
All the mixed actors in this motley scene!
And what a Treasury!—what a crowded hold
Of things gone by! not of the burning gold,
Nor the most lustrous diamond; not the hoards
Earth—Ocean—yield to Earth's and Ocean's lords;
But of the boundless mysteries of the Past;—
In these sepulchral mansions throng'd, amassed!
Suspended there, great energies might seem
To freeze and stagnate in a tideless stream;
And motives—mighty motives, to remain
Constrained, emprisoned, bound in Magic chain:
And their results, their strange fruition, too—
Tradition's heir-looms, or Oblivion's due!
Stern wars, fierce agonies, dread exultations,
Despondencies, and passionate tribulations—
Victories, and gloryings in those Victories proud—
Buried and shrouded, with that buried crowd
To fancy seem! Oh, what a vasty field
Of Terrors, Glooms, and Mysteries unrevealed,
Must be that home of Universal Man —
No dream may image, and no eye may scan!
Oh, what a wondrous Theatre! whose huge stage
Is filled by shadows still, from age to age!
And what a mighty stronghold, that vast vault,
Death's Citadel! that none essay to assault.
There, there couched, peacefully, together rest
The Aggressor and the Avenger; all the Oppressed,
And all the Oppressors too; all, all the Undone,
And each Undoer; chill, and stark, and prone:
Together all; yet each one still alone!
There rest high Sages, whose majestic lore
Little availed them when life's dream was o'er.
And mighty Seers, whose glance of power was sent
Through the dim Future's shadowy firmament;
Who sphered their great thoughts gloryingly around
The Immense; and their proud path unerring found,
Without a beacon,—but without a bound!
Yet, in one short, swift moment went astray,
Resigned their clue, and strangely lost their way!
And laurelled Conquerors: those who harshly blew
Discord's shrill trumpet; whose fierce Eagles flew,
With ravening beaks of fury, far and wide,
Scattering Contention's plagues on every side;
Whose coming, was the signal of dismay—
Wrath, dread, distraction, whose unwelcome stay!
Whose track, was smouldering dwellings, slaughtered swains,
Defeatured landscapes, and polluted fanes—
Blackness and ashes—bare and blasted plains!
Whose annals were of blood, and wrath, and crime;
Ploughed on the face of earth—the front of time—
In chasmy furrows, never quite to close;
Still threatening new and farther-spreading woes!
Alas! the stern reign of the spear and shield!
Alas! the horrors of the martial field!
Alas! the Orphan's and the Widow's grief;
Bereft of consolation or relief!
Alas! the Conqueror's revels! when they spread
The board, and, from a thousand beakers, shed
The bright, clear wine; and think not of the Dead!
Harvests sprung up, black—black as if with blood,
From those dire fields they covered many a rood
With human clay (as Nature, shocked, dismayed,
Loathed the foul burthen on her bosom laid;
And sickened at the hideous ruin piled
Upon the groaning earth, bedimm'd, defiled.)—
The Apostles of dread Agitation, they
Loud fulminated her fierce Precepts!—Yea,
And spread abroad her doctrines of Dismay!
The Dragon-seed, with strenuous hand, they sowed—
(As, bent on their dire Mission, forth they strode,
Like the Tornado on its deadly path)—
The fatal Dragon-seed of Woe and Wrath:
Too, too prolific on this troublous Earth;
Too rapid in its growth, as in its birth!
Themselves unto themselves, the deadliest foes
Were they, 'midst all these terrors and these woes;
Self-barred from hope of respite and repose!
But they are now, where Combat's furies cease;
Where stern Contention yields to sterner Peace!
Victor and Vanquished, there rest reconciled
At last! nor threats, nor vain reproaches wild,
Disturb that stillness; Spoiler and Despoiled,
Haply, rest side by side! Success no more
Shall tempt the one to spill fresh seas of gore;
And no reversion of dark Vengeance stern,
Awaits the other in the burial-urn!
No sound, no dream, no movement, and no breath,
Is in the Under earth's deep World of Death!
Hate, Love, Vice, Virtue, Wisdom, Folly, Pride—
There make no sign—there give no hint: allied,
In dark, unconscious Union—close, but cold—
There Myriads wait; nor burst the enwrapping mould!
Old, green Churchyard! no Sages, no proud Seers,
No Conquerors borne upon their laurelled biers,
Were ever gathered to thy peaceful sod;—
Yet here—in this most calm and still abode,
Humanity reposes, with the Whole
Of thoughts and Feelings, which the unbounded Soul—
The Universal Soul—well, well doth know—
(Shared by the Strong, the Weak, the High, the Low!)—
In dim Abeyance, till the great Hour come,
Doom'd to unlock the vast Gates of the Tomb!
Old, dim Churchyard! deep lessons, hallowed lore,
From thee I learn; and, in my heart's full core,
Shall treasure up and garner: not in vain,
Meekly I hope; for many a solemn train
Of thought should thence upspring, to bless that heart—
To fit it to fulfil its destined part!
Knowledge—the diligent searcher here might find—
Knowledge to exalt the Universal Mind!
Faith, Meekness, Charity, submissive Trust,
Should lift their Angel-voices from the dust.
Ay! if the Soul be bent for Truth to seek,
Silence itself shall to its Silence speak;
The Dust shall talk with tongues of Flame; the Clay
Of Ages tell, what ne'er fresh Ages shall unsay!
Long may my heart on those deep whispers dwell,
Long in responsive strain accordant swell!
Churchyard of tranquil Woolsthorpe—fare thee well!
Farewell! May breeze and sunshine, dew and shower,
Gild your low graves with many a trophy-flower!