 | [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet |  |
THE LAST SLEEP
When like a shade from Summer's sky,
The darkness of this life shall cease—
When the unconscious breast shall lie
In the still earth's funereal peace:
How will the sleeper rest in dust,
His clay with kindred clay be blent,—
While the free spirit of the just
Soars to a brighter element!
The darkness of this life shall cease—
When the unconscious breast shall lie
In the still earth's funereal peace:
How will the sleeper rest in dust,
His clay with kindred clay be blent,—
While the free spirit of the just
Soars to a brighter element!
There is a tranquilizing thought
Comingled with the voiceless grave;
'Tis with no bitter memories fraught—
It echoes not to Time's dull wave:
Passion and Pride are passed away,
And the deep slumberer sinks to rest,
Like gilded clouds, when sunset's ray
Is fading from the unbounded west.
Comingled with the voiceless grave;
'Tis with no bitter memories fraught—
It echoes not to Time's dull wave:
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And the deep slumberer sinks to rest,
Like gilded clouds, when sunset's ray
Is fading from the unbounded west.
And the hot gusts of kindling wrath,
Which lashed the bosom into storm;
They darken not his changeful path,
And the knit brow no more deform—
The throbbing heart is calm and hushed,
The pulse of Hate is cold and still;
And hopes, by sin and sorrow crushed,
Rise not to vex the baffled will!
Which lashed the bosom into storm;
They darken not his changeful path,
And the knit brow no more deform—
The throbbing heart is calm and hushed,
The pulse of Hate is cold and still;
And hopes, by sin and sorrow crushed,
Rise not to vex the baffled will!
Thus should it be! He slumbers now
Sweet as the cradled infant's rest;
No shadows cross that settled brow,
On which the unfelt clod is pressed:
From the sealed lid there steals no tear—
There is no care the eye to dim;
And in his shroud reposing there,
The vale's dull clod is sweet to him!
Sweet as the cradled infant's rest;
No shadows cross that settled brow,
On which the unfelt clod is pressed:
From the sealed lid there steals no tear—
There is no care the eye to dim;
And in his shroud reposing there,
The vale's dull clod is sweet to him!
Oh, who would wake the sleeper up,
To walk earth's gloomy round again:
To feel the drops from Sorrow's cup,
Rise to the wild and fevered brain?
Far rather, in their lowly bed,
Let his pale ashes moulder on—
Since the Free Spirit is not dead,
But to an endless life hath gone.
To walk earth's gloomy round again:
To feel the drops from Sorrow's cup,
Rise to the wild and fevered brain?
Far rather, in their lowly bed,
Let his pale ashes moulder on—
Since the Free Spirit is not dead,
But to an endless life hath gone.
Connecticut Mirror, December 17, 1831
| [Poems by Whittier in] A Study of Whittier's Apprenticeship as a Poet | |