The Poetical Works of David Gray A New and Enlarged Edition; Edited by Henry Glassford Bell |
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The “Auld Aisle”—a Burying-Ground.
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 | The Poetical Works of David Gray |  |
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The “Auld Aisle”—a Burying-Ground.
This is my last and farewell place on earth,
In this unlevel square of soft green-sward.
I love it well. Beneath no trailing vine,
No prairie grass, no moaning yew tree's shade,
Within no hollow hard sarcophagus,
No barrëd tomb, I hope I e'er shall lie;
But, happed with daisy-mingled grass, where oft,
On Sabbath eve, when everything is still,
And every little glen within itself
Is heard to chaunt its masses o'er the sun,
Already shrouded with his blood-stained robes,
Some mindful ones will drop a ready tear
To nurture a white daisy, and will breathe
A gushing prayer of sighs to him below.
I shall not feel their footsteps over me;
I shall not hear their long-known voices speak;
For I'll be dead. Oh! dead! and yet why weep?
Oh! earthly hearts are weak to think of death!
And 'tis a cutting thought to see our hopes
All shivered like a bunch of autumn leaves,
And sunset games, and love—delightful love—
All buried in a grave. Yet it must come.
In this unlevel square of soft green-sward.
I love it well. Beneath no trailing vine,
No prairie grass, no moaning yew tree's shade,
Within no hollow hard sarcophagus,
No barrëd tomb, I hope I e'er shall lie;
But, happed with daisy-mingled grass, where oft,
On Sabbath eve, when everything is still,
And every little glen within itself
Is heard to chaunt its masses o'er the sun,
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Some mindful ones will drop a ready tear
To nurture a white daisy, and will breathe
A gushing prayer of sighs to him below.
I shall not feel their footsteps over me;
I shall not hear their long-known voices speak;
For I'll be dead. Oh! dead! and yet why weep?
Oh! earthly hearts are weak to think of death!
And 'tis a cutting thought to see our hopes
All shivered like a bunch of autumn leaves,
And sunset games, and love—delightful love—
All buried in a grave. Yet it must come.
The wreck of centuries is buried here;
The very monuments are hoar with age;
The empty tower that sentinels them all
Wails when the gusts wild wander o'er the earth,
And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time.
Methinks I see the silent funeral
Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load.
Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate,
And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here,
And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones,
To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully
Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame!
Behold the old man with the sunken eyes
And broken heart. This was his eldest-born.
A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth
He was his joy and hope. And of the gazed
Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times
When in his youthful strength he would him shield,
And help him to the stone before the door
In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear.
So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways
Of the grey place of his nativity.
He saw the sun rise from behind the hills,
His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand.
He saw it sink within the breezy glen,
And all the birds shrink from its burning face
To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand.
But most he pondered over nature's book—
The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn,
The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees
Alive with music. His father wondered strange,
And prouder grew of his bold quiet son,
Who spoke without restraint or lovely eye
Unto God's minister. And he would tell
At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways,
The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn;
Nor did he check the working of the mind
And wearing of the flesh. He knew no harm.
So time grew older still, and he went off,
With paler face and heavier looks, to where
The sons of learning prosecute their toils.
The very monuments are hoar with age;
The empty tower that sentinels them all
Wails when the gusts wild wander o'er the earth,
And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time.
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Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load.
Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate,
And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here,
And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones,
To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully
Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame!
Behold the old man with the sunken eyes
And broken heart. This was his eldest-born.
A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth
He was his joy and hope. And of the gazed
Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times
When in his youthful strength he would him shield,
And help him to the stone before the door
In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear.
So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways
Of the grey place of his nativity.
He saw the sun rise from behind the hills,
His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand.
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And all the birds shrink from its burning face
To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand.
But most he pondered over nature's book—
The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn,
The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees
Alive with music. His father wondered strange,
And prouder grew of his bold quiet son,
Who spoke without restraint or lovely eye
Unto God's minister. And he would tell
At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways,
The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn;
Nor did he check the working of the mind
And wearing of the flesh. He knew no harm.
So time grew older still, and he went off,
With paler face and heavier looks, to where
The sons of learning prosecute their toils.
But here he pined like a transplanted flower
Borne from its native soil. No grass was here,
Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds
All floating in the blue. No lark was here,
In love with angels, but the place was lone
And dark and cold. No milkmaid's song was here.
Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side,
And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone.
And 'mid the throng of battling human kind,
No simple eye nor horny hand sought his,
Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief.
All was unknown, unheeded, but his books,
Which were his very self, his only friend.
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Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds
All floating in the blue. No lark was here,
In love with angels, but the place was lone
And dark and cold. No milkmaid's song was here.
Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side,
And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone.
And 'mid the throng of battling human kind,
No simple eye nor horny hand sought his,
Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief.
All was unknown, unheeded, but his books,
Which were his very self, his only friend.
And rich he was in lore, and strong in hope,
But heaven was panting for an inmate more:
In heaven his place was vacant; as at home.
And time grew older still, and he came home
To see his father, but he ne'er went back.
His body could not hold his restless soul,
That longed, with eagle strength, to pierce the clouds,
And so it burst this yielding bond on earth,
Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak.
His father saw him die. He never left
His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed,
For ever staring at the sharpened face,
He stood and stood and wept not. In that time
His son saw heaven and chided all delay.
His father knew not of the words of blame
That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay,
And clutched it desperately unto his breast.
The arms fell down, nor gave returning press.
And that crush broke the doting father's heart.
This is the grave beside that white gravestone:
Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—
But heaven was panting for an inmate more:
In heaven his place was vacant; as at home.
And time grew older still, and he came home
To see his father, but he ne'er went back.
His body could not hold his restless soul,
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And so it burst this yielding bond on earth,
Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak.
His father saw him die. He never left
His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed,
For ever staring at the sharpened face,
He stood and stood and wept not. In that time
His son saw heaven and chided all delay.
His father knew not of the words of blame
That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay,
And clutched it desperately unto his breast.
The arms fell down, nor gave returning press.
And that crush broke the doting father's heart.
This is the grave beside that white gravestone:
Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—
Epitaph.
Beneath me lies the rotting faded maskOf a young mind that studied heaven well;
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But loved hope's shadow and fair virtue's dell.
He died while on the road to yonder sky,
And every one that wanders careless hee,
Tread soft, and hark! Is not time hurrying by?
Begone and pray; the Day of Judgment's near!
I have seen children playing in this place,
Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here,
And sighs commingle with these strains of love,
For memory is dewy with salt tears.
Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here,
And sighs commingle with these strains of love,
For memory is dewy with salt tears.
Yet some lie here unknown to all. They came
Parentless, and they died and buried were
By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods
All hastily upon the coffin lid
And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair,
Like to a last year's nest, still waits for them.
Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends
Among the breathings of a family home,
To hasten their return. Let us away
And gather stones and place them at their heads.
Parentless, and they died and buried were
By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods
All hastily upon the coffin lid
And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair,
Like to a last year's nest, still waits for them.
Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends
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To hasten their return. Let us away
And gather stones and place them at their heads.
Could all the tales that wait around the graves,
Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up:
How hollow would each swelling heap resound.
Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up:
How hollow would each swelling heap resound.
Here one who died in mirth, and while the laugh,
The merry laugh of joy did paint his face,
Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.
The merry laugh of joy did paint his face,
Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.
Here one who wept to see the flushing sun
Glide reddening from his window bars, and set
To rise again, and dry the silent dew
From his damp grave.
Glide reddening from his window bars, and set
To rise again, and dry the silent dew
From his damp grave.
Here one who lingered long,
And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers
Borne to his bedside. And his eyes grew wild
When the sun's withering gaze stared in upon them,
And he would press them to his fluttering heart,
And face the mighty orb, defiant-like,
As if to hurl it from the empty sky,
For daring thus to blight his darling flowers.
Poor fellow, he was mad.
And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers
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When the sun's withering gaze stared in upon them,
And he would press them to his fluttering heart,
And face the mighty orb, defiant-like,
As if to hurl it from the empty sky,
For daring thus to blight his darling flowers.
Poor fellow, he was mad.
May God forbid
That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay,
Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds,
That bloom beside the low white marble stone
In yon lone spot.
That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay,
Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds,
That bloom beside the low white marble stone
In yon lone spot.
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