University of Virginia Library

44. CHAPTER XLIV.
BURIAL OF THE POET.

The poor poet had expired. There were but three witnesses
present at the moment of dissolution—Mrs. Kale,
and two holy men in gowns, from the college. Charles
was a regularly inducted member of the church, and had the
benefit of the comfortable assurances which the ministers
were authorized to pronounce.

Ned, Elgiva, the bishop, and even Susan, were absent.
Susan had been suddenly called to Philadelphia by Mr.
Persever, who desired her presence with great urgency.

When it was all over, and life pronounced to be extinct,
Tim and Timothy came to watch over the corpse of Ned's
friend. No others were there, except the undertakers, for
the poet loved seclusion, and sought only the society of the
few who could fully and freely sympathize with him. He
had heard that numbers in the world regarded the poet's
occupation as an idle employment, and the poet himself as
but little better than a vagabond; and the sensitive youth
would not willingly offend the sight of the more practical
members of society, whose thoughts are generally of dollars
in their cordial greeting.

It was the same at the hour of burial. The two holy men
—one of them from a distant land, for many of the professors
of the collegiate institutions were priests, and most
of the nations were represented—the two undertakers, and
the two Tims—these were all, besides Mrs. Kale, the poor
widow, who were in attendance.

At the appointed hour the coffin was lifted up by the
four men and borne out into the road, preceded by the
priests with open prayer books, and followed by Mrs. Kale,
the solitary mourner.

The sky was overcast with a pall of dense and dark
vapour. All was silent. No winds ruffled the pendent
leaves; no bird warbled a tuneful note.

They proceeded slowly and mutely along the deserted
path, until the swelling bosom of the poor widow found
relief in the utterance of her feelings.

“He was beautiful,” said she, in low solemn murmurs,
“and as pure as an angel. If he had been my own son, I
could not have loved him more. All who knew him loved
him. And he loved everybody. When he suffered most,
he smiled the sweetest. And his last words were that he
was going to his father in heaven, where there would be
no more suffering, and where he would meet his dear sister,
beside whose grave he desired us to lay him. And he
prayed for his mother, whom he had never mentioned before.”

Then the poor widow's utterance was checked by her
sobs; and one of the priests raising his book read aloud a
few sentences.

“He died in glory,” resumed the widow, when the priest
had lowered the book, “and this morning, when I looked
at his smooth pale face, the sweet smile was still upon his
lips. He died after the great storm was over. The lightning
had flashed, and the thunder had rolled. They had
passed away. The bright drops of rain, like the dew of
the morning, quivered upon the leaves and the flowers,
after the clouds were lifted up far in the west. And when
the sun streamed through the casement, he begged me to
raise his head that he might gaze upon the glorious scene.
He kissed my cheek as he lay upon my shoulder. Then
the sun went down, and he closed his eyes. They were
closed forever!”

“I must stop a minute,” said Timothy Hay. “He's as
light as a feather, I know; but I'm as weak as a baby.”

The coffin was placed upon the grass near a tuft of wild
roses, while the stalwart farmers leaned over it and wept
like children. The priests turned away their faces, unable
to read for their tears. Even the undertakers hung down
their heads in real sorrow.

“Now I am strong again,” said Timothy, after the lapse
of a few minutes. The coffin was lifted up once more and
borne slowly along by the four men, preceded by the holy
men and followed by the mourner.

“Everything loved him,” resumed the widow. “There
was a little bird that used to sing in the woodbine near the
window. He fed it every day, and it got to be so gentle
that it would perch upon his shoulder. And when he was

too ill to go to it, the little creature would fly in and hop
upon the bed. This morning, when I opened the window,
the poor little bird had its breast pressed against the sash,
its wings spread out, and its head hanging down.”

“Dead?” asked Tim, bringing the procession to a
sudden halt, and turning round towards the poor widow.

“Yes, indeed! As cold and stiff as the sweet youth
himself!”

“I—I'm tired—no—but as weak as water,” said Tim,
with suffused eyes, “and must rest a little.”

Again the bier was put down by the way-side, and the
little group stood around it in silence.

Ere long the widow ceased to utter her lamentations,
and during the remainder of the distance the coffin was
borne along without interruption. The service was solemnly
performed, and the body was lowered into the grave,
which had been prepared adjoining Viola's. When the
clods rattled upon the coffin, the last outburst of sorrow
proceeded from the widow, and then the son of genius was
left reposing beside the sister he had loved so well.

An hour afterwards Ned was weeping over the grave of
his friend. He had been too late! A week after, a crown
of laurel rested upon the turf above the poet's head, placed
there by the lily hands of the fair Elgiva. Such is the
poet's doom!