Poems and Poetical Fragments [by Henry Alford] |
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ON SEEING THE FOLLOWING EPITAPH AT
SELWORTHY, WEST SOMERSET. |
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 | Poems and Poetical Fragments |  |
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ON SEEING THE FOLLOWING EPITAPH AT SELWORTHY, WEST SOMERSET.
August 5, 1832.
This grave's a cradle where an infant lies,
Rockt fast asleepe with Death's sad lullabyes.
Rockt fast asleepe with Death's sad lullabyes.
Sad lullabyes, dear child—in this sweet spot,
The chime of hourly clock,—the mountain stream
That ever sends up to thy resting place
Its gush of many voices—and the crow
Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill,
From elm embosomed farms along the dells,—
These are thy lullabyes—who would not sleep
Thus husht and sung to with all sweetest sounds?
The chime of hourly clock,—the mountain stream
That ever sends up to thy resting place
Its gush of many voices—and the crow
Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill,
From elm embosomed farms along the dells,—
These are thy lullabyes—who would not sleep
Thus husht and sung to with all sweetest sounds?
And I can stand beside thy cradle, child,
And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp
Midway the mountain passing slowly on,
Whose beaconed top peers over on the vale;—
And upward narrowing in thick-timbered dells
Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses
Propping his mighty weight—each with its stream,
Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag,
Now smoothed in clear black pools—then in the vales
Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on,
By cots and farms and peaceful villages,
And meadows brightest green. Who would not sleep
Rockt in so fair a cradle?
And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp
Midway the mountain passing slowly on,
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And upward narrowing in thick-timbered dells
Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses
Propping his mighty weight—each with its stream,
Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag,
Now smoothed in clear black pools—then in the vales
Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on,
By cots and farms and peaceful villages,
And meadows brightest green. Who would not sleep
Rockt in so fair a cradle?
But that word—
That one word—‘death,’ comes over my sick brain
Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon;
Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade,
Mountain, and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream,
With a thick dazzling darkness.—Who art thou
Under this hillock on the mountain side?
I love the like of thee with a deep love,
And therefore called thee dear—thee who art now
A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes
Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sad;
No revelry of streams, no pomp of clouds,
Not the blue top of mountain—nor the woods
Which clothe the steeps, have any joy for thee.
That one word—‘death,’ comes over my sick brain
Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon;
Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade,
Mountain, and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream,
With a thick dazzling darkness.—Who art thou
Under this hillock on the mountain side?
I love the like of thee with a deep love,
And therefore called thee dear—thee who art now
A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes
Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sad;
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Not the blue top of mountain—nor the woods
Which clothe the steeps, have any joy for thee.
Go to then—tell me not of balmiest rest
In fairest cradle—for I never felt
One half so keenly as I feel it now,
That not the promise of the sweetest sleep
Can make me smile on Death. Yet I do smile,
Because we shall not sleep.
In fairest cradle—for I never felt
One half so keenly as I feel it now,
That not the promise of the sweetest sleep
Can make me smile on Death. Yet I do smile,
Because we shall not sleep.
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