Virginalia ; or, songs of my summer nights :: :: University of Virginia Library

In the sweet language of that heavenly Hymn,
I cry out, in my sorrows, day by day;
So, that, all night mine eyes with tears are dim—
Come, Angels! help me roll this rock away!

Not only are his grave-clothes lying there,
But his dear body, also, wrapped in clay!
I still can hear no answer to my prayer—
No Angel comes to roll the rock away!

Like some sweet lily-bud before its bloom,
Waiting the advent of the God of Day—
His little body lies here in the tomb,
For Angels' hands to roll the rock away.

Now his dear father at the grave-door stands,
Striving to move it—but it still will stay;
It is too heavy for these mortal hands—
Angels alone can roll the rock away!

The red clay, lying on his coffin-lid,
Makes mountains on my soul of grief to-day;
Not to be moved, till, as for Christ they did,
The Angels come to roll the rock away.

As Winter waits for Spring to come again,
And robe her nudeness in her green array—
Long have I waited here on earth, in vain,
For Angels' hands to roll the rock away!

Though he has now been dead for five long years,
Yet, I cannot persuade myself to-day
That God will not yet furnish, for my tears,
Some Angel's hands to roll the rock away.

For every time I look upon his grave,
I feel that he is living here to-day;
For surely, were he dead, I would not crave
An Angel's hands to roll this rock away.

Here will my soul these patient vigils keep,
Green as the Myrtle on his grave to-day;
Waiting in sorrow that can never sleep,
Some Angel's hands to roll this rock away!

Not till that blessed hour, when I shall see
Him, face to face, in Heaven's immortal day—
Will this great boon be granted unto me—
Some Angel's hands to roll this rock away!

Villa Allegra, Ga., Oct. 10, 1848.