The Poetical Works of George Barlow :: :: University of Virginia Library

There is a holy joy in growing old,
If but the soul grows as the strength declines.
Life's winter need not freeze with flowerless cold,
Though spring's brave golden sun no longer shines.

Though passion's blossoms wither, are the stars
Not nearer, as our ripe souls yearn through space?
Heaven's far-lit windows gleam devoid of bars,
Wide open, on the upturned aging face.

We are more near to death, but nearer too
To countless loved ones who have gone before;
Who watched death's grey waves quickening into blue,
As sunlight reached them from the further shore.

This brings content,—aye, rapture. Perfect peace
Of spirit should be the sweet lot of the old:
A large trust that God's bounty cannot cease;
Hope that life's fairy-tale is not half told!

Hope that the Power which made so passing fair
Our earthly springs, made green leaves interlace,
Can bring with grand result its force to bear
On higher spheres—that hold some higher race?

Strive so to live that, when you come to die,
Sweet thoughts may follow you from all your land:
Thoughts that shall shine like stars within the sky
Of death, and make the sombre prospect grand.

Thoughts both of man and woman.—Let men say,
“He changed our souls to fire, to slay all wrong:”
Let women think, “He lifted sorrow away,
And made us stronger, being himself so strong.

“No woman was the worse—the better, all,
For loving help and helpful love he gave.
He lured no trusting weak one to her fall.
Our blessing reaches him beyond the grave.”

On one side clamour of our winds and waves;
Babble of voices; golden stars that burn;
Birds singing in the elm-trees over graves;
White tombstones couched amid the clustering fern:

White tombstones—yes! But bright life over all:
Above the graveyard skies of ceaseless blue:
The starlit heavens for canopy and pall:
This on one side. But, dead man, what of you?

Can your eyes now behold the summer skies?
Can your ears hear the summer birds that sing?
—Or is the silence where the dead man lies
Perhaps the noblest gift that death can bring?

For through that supreme silence that no voice
Of mortal penetrates, that starless gloom,
God's voice may sound; and it may say, “Rejoice,”
In accents thrilling through the fast-closed tomb.

“Rejoice: thy work is over. Take thy rest.
Of sweet peace drink thy fill. Thy strife is o'er.
Pillow thine head on the Eternal's breast.
Suffered thou hast? Thou shalt not suffer more.

“Are there no stars to light thee? Is it gloom
Within the grave? I am thy star, thy light.
Though death to every sun and star spake doom,
The Lord thy God is stronger than the night.

“There is no death, if thou art part of me:
No night, for I will be thy midday sun;
Pour at thy feet a new-created sea;
Before thy gaze make silver rivers run.

“The world with all its graves and flowers is mine,
And thou hast helped that world along life's way:
Fear not, though never glow-worm star should shine;
The God who made the stars is more than they.”

This I regret—this grieves me, growing old—
That, though maybe to heavenly fields I pass
I never more shall see the cowslip's gold
Sprinkle with glittering gems the green spring grass.

I never more shall see—whatever waits
Of glory and beauty far beyond the tomb—
One earthly sunset open crimson gates,
Or one wild crimson clover-field in bloom.

Moreover all the valiant deeds to come,
Great deeds in which my nation will take part—
Shall I behold them from some heavenly home,
And will they thrill to fire my heavenly heart?

The next great war! When Europe shakes again
Beneath opposing millions' battle-tread,
When Belgium is once more a battle-plain
Or the Swiss mountain-meadows reek with dead,

Shall I behold? Shall I be closed off quite
From all the stirring clash of things to come?
When England next arises in her might,
Shall I be barred behind the eyeless tomb?

When England breasts, upon some future sea,
The giant-armoured fleets men now prepare,
Will not her trumpet-voice reach even me?
Shall I not long, long madly, to be there?

When France and Russia force us, it may be,
To test our iron-plated darkling horde
Of monstrous vessels, churning up the sea
With Titan screw or fierce torpedo-sword;

Or when the red line, where far Indus flows,
Wrestles for India, on one mighty day,
Shall I be heedless how the battle goes,—
Silent for ever, wholly past away?

My eyes will soon be dimmed.—God will behold
All stars for ever, and all suns of space.
In fiery rank on rank of glittering gold
Their hosts will charge and wheel before his face.

I shall not see the flowers: but God will see
The flowers of endless springs, through endless days.
He'll share the rose's own eternity,
And wander through the sealed years' hidden ways.

I shall not hear the thunder, or the roar
Of ocean.—God will hear the thunders roll,
And hear the huge waves plunge upon the shore,
And guide the flashing lightnings to their goal.

New moons will silver placid wastes of sea;
New suns will blaze above the golden sand:
New lovers—yes, to all eternity—
Will gaze in eyes that love and understand.

God will behold.—The glorious dark-brown hair
Of maid on maid he will caress and stroke.
Through spring on spring his palette will prepare
New soft green colours for each budding oak.

He will array each kingfisher in blue,
And robe the goldfinch—touch its cheek with red:
Crumble to dust the stars,—then make all new;
I shall be gone, but God will not be dead.

O living mighty Lord, into thine hand
I give myself, and all I may not see:
The green robes of the cliffs, the corn-clad land,
The thyme-tufts shaken by the summer bee.

Thou ever hast the past before thy gaze:
The present and the future are but one
To thee. We see all life through clouds and haze;
But thine eyes front and blench not at the sun.