 | War-lyrics and other poems |  |
THE BOOK.
A written book before me lies.
Therein I keep a record strange,
An ever-darkening chronicle
Of human Fate and Change.
Therein I keep a record strange,
An ever-darkening chronicle
Of human Fate and Change.
The list—not idly numbered o'er—
Of those who, borne the threshold forth,
Shall leave their footsteps never more
Upon the sunny earth.
Of those who, borne the threshold forth,
Shall leave their footsteps never more
Upon the sunny earth.
Strange fellowship is witnessed there,
Strange names are mingled, side by side—
Traced coldly, or with reverent care,
As, one by one, they died.
Strange names are mingled, side by side—
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As, one by one, they died.
The gentle ones, whose angel feet
With mine, Life's dewy pathway trod—
And they who, in the hurrying street,
Returned a careless nod.
With mine, Life's dewy pathway trod—
And they who, in the hurrying street,
Returned a careless nod.
The friend, whose trusty heart would cling
To mine, alike in weal or woe—
And next, the poor forgiven thing,
That once they called my foe.
To mine, alike in weal or woe—
And next, the poor forgiven thing,
That once they called my foe.
And here is one, whose sunny head
In auburn tresses oft I curled,
And there, a Name that filled with dread
The wonder-stricken world.
In auburn tresses oft I curled,
And there, a Name that filled with dread
The wonder-stricken world.
Yet lighter than to number all
Whom I have marked around me fade—
To count the withered leaves that fall
In autumn's forest shade.
Whom I have marked around me fade—
To count the withered leaves that fall
In autumn's forest shade.
Still, ever to my thoughtful eyes
Some long-forgotten form will rise.
Still I recall some buried face,
That long hath lost each human trace.
Some long-forgotten form will rise.
Still I recall some buried face,
That long hath lost each human trace.
And one, who o'er each name did glance,
(A pious, godly priest is he,)
Saith “burn thy book—full soon, perchance,
Thine own may added be!”
(A pious, godly priest is he,)
Saith “burn thy book—full soon, perchance,
Thine own may added be!”
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And if it be, mine honest friend!
Or now, or in life-weary age,
Think'st thou no lesson I have gained—
No moral from its page?
Or now, or in life-weary age,
Think'st thou no lesson I have gained—
No moral from its page?
The Lovely—'mid the haunts of mirth
How soon their gentle reign was o'er!
The Great—how quickly from the earth
They passed, and were no more!
How soon their gentle reign was o'er!
The Great—how quickly from the earth
They passed, and were no more!
And gazing here I think, since Life,
E'en at the longest, fades so soon,
Why should we waste in care or strife
The frail yet precious boon?
E'en at the longest, fades so soon,
Why should we waste in care or strife
The frail yet precious boon?
No sermon thou didst ever preach,
(And goodly homilies are thine!)
Hath half the power my soul to reach,
That dwells in each poor line.
(And goodly homilies are thine!)
Hath half the power my soul to reach,
That dwells in each poor line.
And thus, dear ghostly friend, the book,
E'en at thy word, I will not burn—
But more thereof will rather look,
Some gentler text to learn.
E'en at thy word, I will not burn—
But more thereof will rather look,
Some gentler text to learn.
Some sad, yet far from gloomy thought—
Some truthful lesson, pure and high—
To help us live as live we ought,
And teach us—how to die.
Some truthful lesson, pure and high—
To help us live as live we ought,
And teach us—how to die.
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