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119
CYPRESS LEAVES
THE TRANCE.
I.
Mourners were mutely gathered round a bier,On which reposed the coffin of a child.
With hurried step and wildly-flowing hair
The mother came, and when the lid was raised,
Thus gave expression to her frantic woe:—
II.
“Make way! unfeeling crowd!Heart-broken let me gaze upon my dead
Before ye bear him to his narrow bed.
Fold back the shroud!
The wind shall kiss his pallid cheek once more
Its touch, perchance, the life-flush may restore.
III.
“Though pale that face,The wonted smile of joy it yet retains—
Too much of beauty for the grave remains
To hide in its embrace.
He sleeps as calmly in that box enclosed
As if within his cradle he reposed.
IV.
“Look on the sleepers now!His silken curls are by the soft wind fanned,
A rose-bud blushes in his little hand,
Torn from the parent bough.
Though death hath made my bud of promise cold,
Where angels dwell the leaves may yet unfold,
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V.
“Spreading thy raven wing,Why blast the lovely long before their prime,
Ere they have felt the wasting touch of time,
Pale, shadowy king?
Why rob the casket of its precious gem,
And pluck the young flower from its tender stem?
VI.
“Blight with thy breathThe aged pilgrim in this vale of tears,
Whose form is bending with the weight of years,
Insatiate tyrant, Death!
Snatch not the infant from its mother's breast,
Lifeless and cold beneath the sod to rest.
VIII.
“Lo! I am childless left!The staff on which I hoped to lean is gone;
Through life alone I now shall journey on,
Of all I loved bereft.
One spirit more hath left the earth to dwell
With kindred souls. My stricken flower farewell!”
IX.
“Mother!” he faintly cries.Perchance it was a vagary of the brain—
It cannot be!—those pale lips move again,
And open are his eyes!
With the life-flush his cheek is growing red—
“My cup of joy is full—he is not dead!”
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TRIBUTE
TO THE MEMORY OF THE LATE REV. JACOB BRODHEAD, D. D.
I.
Why are the gray-haired fathers of the ChurchConvened within these consecrated walls?
Why altar-piece and pulpit hung with black,
While peals a requiem on the summer air,
And heads, in deep solemnity, are bowed?
A guiding light is quenched, that long hath thrown
Its steady radiance on life's troubled sea,
Like the tall watch-fire, on some beetling cliff,
Hailed by benighted seamen o'er the waves.
A loved and venerated form will walk
On mercy's errand in our midst no more;
His mission is accomplished, and the tomb
Opens its portals for the honored dead.
II.
Better than riches, or the robes of pride,Are the bright graces of the pure in heart.
The clay-walls of the prison crumble down—
Earth to her breast receives the cast-off robe—
But acts of goodness, oft in secret done,
Unasked-for visitations to the dens
Where mute Remorse lies housed with pleading Woe,
Embalm their memory forever more;
And Heavenly harp-strings, by angelic hands,
Are grandly swept when their enfranchised souls
Soar upward, lark-like, to the Better Land.
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III.
True to his sacred office labored onOur venerated father to the last,
And when the summons that we all must hear,
Was whispered by Death's Angel, with a smile
He heard the tidings, and his last good-bye
Had in it more of welcome than farewell.
How rich the legacy he left! how poor
Are the mere gauds of fortune, or the shouts
That herald stern Ambition on his way,
While martial music surges on the wind,
And banner-staffs untwine their golden folds—
Compared with greeting looks and heart-warm smiles,
The free spontaneous offerings of love,
When all who knew him saw his face benign!
IV.
The loved who leave us are not always lost;They die not like the perishable leaves,
Or summer roses of so brief a date;
And one like him, who influenced for good,
In public and in private life, the world,
Lives on in grateful hearts where he has sown
The precious seeds of charity and love,
When the dumb earth to her maternal arms
Takes back the loan of poor dissolving clay.
V.
A soldier of the Church, he nobly foughtThe fight of faith, and bore the blessed cross,
Without a stain upon his sacred robe,
Until his long, bright pilgrimage is o'er.
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The blessings that he showered upon his flock,
His pure example and advice and alms,
With Christ-like meekness on the poor bestowed,
And the pale crowd of suppliants that choke
The ways of this sad world, are written down
And registered in Heaven.
VI.
Mourn not for him!Ripe for the harvest he has passed away,
And still the light of his departure calm
Lingers round places that have known him long,
Like the illumined track of vanished day.
DALE CEMETERY, AT SING-SING.
I.
I love thy hallowed limits, Place of Graves!I love the quiet of thy hills and dells,
Where the lone dash of Hudson's wintry waves,
Softened by distance, like a dirge-note swells:
Those who can look on scenes so fair, unmoved,
Have never Nature loved.
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II.
When o'er the war of life, who would not restFrom toil and trouble in a place so sweet,—
Rounded the funeral mound above his breast,
Far from the din of throngs and trampling feet?
Here Grief throws by her sables, and puts on
A golden smile like dawn.
III.
Those who were dear to me in other daysLie in dissevered beds of dreamless sleep—
Oh! would that here the marble I might raise
Above their dust, and sorrow's vigil keep;
The corse bring hither from the distant West
Of one I loved the best.
IV.
She lies too near the crowded thoroughfare,And rattling wheels throw dust upon her tomb;
She loved the mountain, and the liberal air—
Spring's violet beauty, and rich summer's bloom;
Ah! more of peace would harbor in my breast
Could here that loved one rest.
V.
And she of winning look and sunny tress,Of softly rounded cheek and dark-blue eye—
My long-mourned daughter, lovely little Bess,
Cut off untimely, by her side should lie;
Yon brook that sends its murmur to mine ear
Speaks of those dead ones dear.
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VI.
Here death arrays his form in softest guise,And Beauty, stricken by his mortal blow,
Who comes with folded arms and curtained eyes,
He welcomes with a lover's whisper low;
And perished childhood, with a smiling face,
Folds in his hushed embrace.
VII.
Ambition, here, his struggles, dreams and hopesAll ended, like a child may lay him down—
The flitting shadow on yon mountain slopes,
Apt symbol of his dream of wild renown:
And Pleasure, sated with life's wasting wine,
Her head in peace recline.
VIII.
These hillocks, swelling over silent breasts,Seem waves of life arrested in their flow,
And a deep calm, as of Elysium, rests
On upland ridge and glen that lies below,
And first, beneath the light of vernal skies,
Here violets uprise.
IX.
Sweet Place of Graves! I thank thee for the calmThy landscape has infused into my soul—
The wounded bosom here may find a balm,
And life grow tranquil as it nears the goal;
This scene, composed of forest, wave and hill,
Makes the wild pulse grow still.
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MEMORIAL LINES
INSCRIBED TO BEREAVED PARENTS.
I.
What precious balm can song impartTo lessen woe that parents bear,
When throbs no more the gentle heart
Of one so gifted, good and fair!
The feathered harbingers of May
Revisit northern haunts again,
While school mates listen to their lay,
But, ah! for her they chant in vain.
II.
We know that breaking is the lightRound her, of Heaven's eternal dawn,
And that unknown are death and night
Where one so pure as she hath gone;
That better is a land of bliss
For spirits of celestial mould;
But, full of agony, we miss
The face that cheered us to behold.
III.
Long lashes shaded eyes of blueFrom which looked forth a soul of love,
Deep as midsummer skies in hue
When not a cloud is seen above;
Soft hair, as with a halo, crowned
Her head and gleamed like golden ore;
Those wond'rous locks, in song renowned,
Less bright that Petrarch's Laura wore.
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IV.
Ah! what hath been no more can be,For early was her requiem sung;
The youngest of our flock was she,
And favorite of old and young.
We miss her footfall on the stair,
Her kiss of welcome at the door,
And tells a tale, yon vacant chair,
Of beauty flown forevermore.
V.
Our darling of the radiant curlsDwells where Omniscience claims his own,
For caskets that enclose such pearls
Are wedded to the dust alone.
Lost lamb! with life's brief conflict tired,
On the Good Shepherd's tender breast
Sleep, while we breathe those words inspired,
“He giveth his beloved rest.”
BURIAL OF BIRDIE.
I.
It was meet that one so sweetShould be drest in bridal white
When her heart had ceased to beat,
And her orbs had closed in night.
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And like one asleep she lay
While a pale and sorrowing band
Wept for Beauty passed away.
II.
It was meet that one so sweet,Dead should wear the robes of life,
Not the ghastly winding sheet
Making death with terror rife.
Golden brown the silken hair
On the rounded temples fell,
And like work of sculptor rare
Was the face we loved so well.
III.
It was meet that one so sweetFrom the war of life should flee,
And with golden-sandaled feet
Walk where roars no angry sea.
Dead? our Birdie is not dead!
In that box lies beauteous clay,
But her cherub soul hath fled
To the Land of Light away.
IV.
It is meet that dust so sweetShould in May be laid to rest,
And that form with grace replete,
In a stainless garb be drest.
With a longing in her heart
For her Heavenly Father's fold,
She was destined to depart
Early from a clime so cold.
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V.
It is meet that one so sweet,Loaned to dark earth for a day,
Back to Heaven, her native seat,
Like a bird should wing her way.
Let no dismal dirge be sung,
No chill ritual be read,
When the beautiful and young
To their Father's House have fled.
VI.
It was meet that one so sweetWhen she heard the Angels call
Should her mother's name repeat,
And escape from mortal thrall.
Let this casket, doomed to waste,
Gently to damp mould be given
While the jewel it encased
Glitters in the crown of Heaven!
CALLED AWAY.
I.
Low, hollow murmurs from the clear southwestAnnounce the rolling of Spring's chariot wheels;
Light dances on the mountain's stormy crest,
And earth a rapture feels.
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On the sour face of March will wake a smile,
While robin red-breast a rejoicing song
Is warbling out the while.
The signs of resurrection are abroad
After the wintry death-sleep of the flowers:
The chilly snow-paths that our feet have trod
Will soften with warm showers:—
II.
But, ah! early taken, the dead will not waken,Though hearts bleed and bitterly ache—
The shroud is around her and fetters have bound her
That conquering Spring cannot break:
Young March is not bringer of life to the singer
Whose wood-notes were warbled so well:
A charmed lute is broken, the last word is spoken,
And, hark! to yon death-tolling bell!
III.
I hear a voice that thus rebukes complaint—“The grave can set no bounds to buried worth,
Only clay garments an ascended saint
Leaves to cold, covering earth.”
No lines of care her face will darken more,
No bitter pang shoot through her trembling form;
Won is the crown, for well the cross she bore
Through darkness, grief and storm.
She is not dead—to give her welcome grand
Blest lyres to notes of jubilee were strung
When through the golden gates of Morning Land
She passed, pure, radiant, young.”
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When the lovely grow wan and take leave,
For sweet, vanished faces and drear, vacant places
The heart that is coldest must grieve;
And one has departed—a minstrel true-hearted—
Whose strain, like the nightingale's lay,
Though dark the sky o'er us, cheered gloom with its chorus
While doubt and dread vanished away.
MEMORIAL LINES.
I.
Again the moon of bursting flowersDecks like a bride the landscape fair;
How jubilant the fall of showers—
How full of balm the bracing air!
But night-clouds on my soul descend,
Though outward nature is aglow,
While thinking of a youthful friend
Who perished one brief year ago.
II.
Commanding view of wood and wave,Broad level mead and breezy hill,
I stood beside the verdant grave
Where slept his ashes hushed and still;
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So picturesque, retired and sweet,
Where blossoms breathed “forget him not.”
Had hallowed been by angel feet.
III.
I doubt not that a martyr's crownHe wears amidst the Heavenly Host,
By fearful accident cut down
While braving death at Duty's post.
O stricken father! mourn no more!
The mystic river he has crossed,
And sainted ones upon the shore
Have crowned thy boy, too early lost.
IV.
Though sailing on a troubled sea,The blissful port of peace is near,
And promises vouchsafed to thee
A Christian mariner should cheer.
There will the parted meet again,
Hand clasped to hand and face to face,
Thy noble boy, bewailed in vain,
With clasping arms thy neck embrace.
A REMEMBRANCE.
I.
The grapes hang blue upon the frame,The peach is blushing on the bough;
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Has tipped the western mountain's brow;
September wears the look he wore
When sorely were my heart-strings tried—
When gloom was thrown the landscape o'er,
And Bessie died.
II.
The sad gray years are thrust betweenThe poet and that mournful hour
When in her loveliness was seen
My darling dead in home's sweet bower;
But fresh in my remembrance still,
Though sons have fallen at my side,
Is that dark hour of gloom and ill
When Bessie died.
III.
She was a child of softest bloom,Too fair for this dark land of shade,
And through the portals of the tomb
She passed in angel-robes arrayed.
Like bright September's sun-set cloud
Her rounded cheek and lips were dyed;
For me no terror hath the shroud
Since Bessie died.
IV.
Ere closed her second year I heardThe summons of the Mower, death,
And hushed was home's bright singing bird
When drawn was her last fluttering breath.
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But she expired ere eventide;
I lost all trust in mortal bliss
When Bessie died.
V.
Since that dread hour a noble boyHas in the battle's front been slain;
Another, full of hope and joy,
Drowned, never to revive again;
But darkest was that hour of woe,
Most sorely was the poet tried
When, like a wreath of melting snow,
His Bessie died.
THE ANNIVERSARY.
“Graves are but the footsteps of the angel of eternal life.”—
Jean Paul.
Jean Paul.
I.
May laughs, dropping dew from her tresses,For the reign of the Frost King is o'er;
Blue-eyed, like our lost one, she dresses
The grave where she slumbers once more.
The lark unmolested is building
Amidst hiding grasses her nest,
And bright dandelions are gilding
The green plaid that covers her breast.
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II.
Like flute notes that melt in the distance,Her last song hath died on the ear;
Though ended brief mortal existence,
She dwells in a happier sphere.
Unfit for this valley of sorrow
Are beings so fragile and fair;
Though present to-day, on the morrow
To the Isles of the Blest they repair.
III.
The mirth of the household was endedWhen dying she lay without moan,
And May-time grew dark when descended
A blight on our rose-bud half blown.
Our blossom too early that perished,
Torn rudely from home's ravaged bower,
By soft airs of Paradise nourished
Hath opened its leaves in full flower.
IV.
Fled away when the season was vernalOur waif from a Heavenly shore;
Tired of play, on the bosom maternal
Her head she will pillow no more.
The garland is dust that once bound it,
And changed is its contour to mould;
One curl of the many that crowned it
Alone emits lustre like gold.
V.
Last eve, by the light of stars roaming,I felt that her spirit was nigh,
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Made thus to my quest low reply:
“Drear thoughts of the charnel-house banish,
Hearse, coffin and mouldering urn:
From sight, though the beautiful vanish,
Sometimes they have leave to return.”
THE DYING SAINT.
I.
Pass on to rest and victory,Tried champion of the Cross!
Although thy everlasting gain
Is our embittered loss.
The waves of mortal life subside
Upon the shores of time,
And death ere long on changing clay
Will set his seal sublime.
II.
Mother in Israel! we knowThere is in store for thee
A crown that fadeth not away,
Beyond the troubled sea;
There will thy husband, gone before,
His aged partner greet,
And in a house not made with hands
Love's scattered household meet.
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III.
Guide of my youth and riper age,Beloved by me and mine,
The beauty of a cloudless eve
Lends grace to thy decline.
Oh! death-bed of the good and just!
I never shall forget
Friends gathering like stars around
A sun about to set.
IV
Intelligence survived the powerTo utter parting words,
And sweetly on her listening ear
Fell notes of summer birds;
I felt her gently clasping hand,
Although she could not speak,
And light, as from the Better Land,
Fell on her pale, thin cheek.
V.
The low, balm-breathing air of JuneStole through the open door,
But could not to the wasted face
Its roses lost restore;
Though o'er it an expression came
More beautiful than bloom,
A signal that the passing soul
Had conquered grief and gloom.
VI.
Alas! my pen is uninspiredIn fitting words to paint
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The death-bed of a saint.
The gates of glory ope for her,
Then why deplore our loss?
Pass on to rest and victory,
Tried champion of the Cross!
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