University of Virginia Library

A VISION OF DEATH,

AN EXTRACT.

(An old man discovered in a country grave-yard.)
OLD MAN.
Beneath this simple mound lies much, how much!
That living made earth lovelier, and was
The throne and crown unto my own sad world
Of Love and Hope, which make the total sum
Of all that man calls happiness. Bloom, bloom,
Ye little blossoms! and if beauty can
Like other purest essences exhale,
And penetrate the mould, your flowers shall be
Of rarest hue and perfume. I would see
Ye in a fair inscription gild her dust
With thoughts no mortal hand shall dare. And you,
Ye little wingèd choirs of air, who chant
From over fulness of the heart, as do
The winds which breathe upon the rustling grass,
Or roar along the ocean, till his waves
Thunder and hiss in foamy cataracts,—
Chant ye to-day and to all coming time,
Without the aid of burnished instrument,
The hollow organ of a seventhday pile,
But from your hearts with well accustomed throats,
Which loud from Sabbath unto Sabbath make
Perpetual worship, pour a requiem for
The early lost, or rather say removed.
Would I might follow! wherefore do I stay?
Can there still be in this poor tottering frame,
Which usurous Time has long since bankrupt made,
Aught which can make it valuable to life?
This palsied head of its own free accord,
Which negatively shakes its beggared hairs,
Answers, how truly! Wherefore do I stay?
I have outlived all that inflamed my youth,
Or made my manhood resolute—outlived
A whole misfortune of ancestral gold,
And all the joy which empty Fame bestows;
Two things of boundless sway, which are at once
The strong man's weakness and the weak man's strength.
A strange sensation through this wreck of dust
Proclaims a dissolution—let it come.
Oh Death, time was when I had deemed thy name
A terror, and thy cold and fleshless hand
A thing to shrink from!—it is not so now—
Next to the names of those who gave me life
Thine is the dearest, and the next to hers
Whose hand thou hast usurped, I would clasp thine.
How now? these marble monuments like ghosts
Do rise and stand above their natural wont,
And waver in the wind—I faint—who speaks?

The Spirit of Death answers from the air.
'T is He whose name but now was on thy lips.
Thou didst desire me; dost now repent?

OLD MAN.
No!

DEATH.
But thou dost tremble!

OLD MAN.
Not at thee, for yet
I do behold thee not—this tenement
Doth topple with the weight of years;—thy breath
May crumble it to dust; but thou shalt see
The spirit standing on the ruin here;
And face to face answering speech for speech,
Fearless as I do now. I can dare all!

DEATH.
Dost thou defy?

OLD MAN.
Nothing except thy terrors.
My soul was fashioned for command, not fear.

DEATH.
Command'st thou me?

OLD MAN.
No, not as did the hag
Of Endor the poor ghost, for I have still
Enough of courage to brave more of life;
But being here thou art most welcome.

DEATH.
Nay,
But knowest thou what I am?

OLD MAN.
If thou art Death,
Then have I pictured thee a spirit fair,
And full of loving kindness unto all;
In love thou seal'st the infant's waxen eyes,
And tak'st the lily maiden to thy breast,
Or pour'st a healing balm in Manhood's wounds,
Or oil upon the troubled waves of Age.
Speak I not true?

DEATH.
Words may not answer that.
Now let thine eyes instead, compare the picture—
Come, look on me!

OLD MAN.
I do!

DEATH.
Well, what say'st thou?
Am I the thing of terror men have chosen
To name me?

OLD MAN.
Wonder, like the unloosed wind
Seizes me—I cannot speak—yet—

DEATH.
Would not
Curse me?

OLD MAN.
Curse thee? Oh no! a thousand tongues
Are clamorous within my soul to sing
Thy great, surprising loveliness—Thine eyes
Are wells of pity and of love, thy lips
Wreathed with the sainted smile of her who blessed
My earliest infancy. All that the world
E'er crowned me with, of sweet and beautiful,
Is crowded in the compass of thy face.
Art thou thus lovely unto all?

DEATH.
I am
What they who find me make me—Shall we go?

OLD MAN.
Whither?

DEATH.
Upward—and onward, into outer space,
Where she, thy kindred spirit, waiteth thee.

OLD MAN.
Most willingly—but stay, one moment yet,
To let me gaze where I shall gaze no more,
On this new mound—Hold! what is this which lies
Across her grave—The figure of a man!
A poor old man, in dusty, threadbare robes;
See there, how thin his hair is and how white!
How pale he looks! and yet he wears a smile;
Oh, now if I had alms to give, here—

DEATH.
Alas!
Hast thou forgot thine own poor tenement
So soon?—

(The spirit of the Old Man leaning over the body exclaims,)
'T is not a face that I am used
To look upon—poor dust!

When Death leads him gently away.