The Cup of Quietness :: :: University of Virginia Library

ELEGY

Here sleeps the eager form I held so dear,
Here lie the ruins of my iondest dreams;
Often I seek the spot, for only here,
When evening's eyes grow dim,
The heart of sorrow slowlier beats, and seems
Almost at rest with him.

Here 'tis so simple; just one young life less,
One sweet book closed; and all our weight of woe—
What matters it to him?—our wakefulness
Disturbeth not his sleep;
Our pleadings touch him not; he doth not know
Whether we smile or weep;

Or, if he knows, no tidings hither come
From that secluded land; if spirits grieve
For mortal sorrows, they to us are dumb,
As we to them are blind;
Either they cannot reach us, or they leave
All care of earth behind.

Here only death is peace; around 'tis all
One loud and senseless turmoil; nothing blends
With death but death; no voice is musical,
Earth's sweetest harmonies
Are discord, and the skylark's song offends
The silence where he lies.

The city's distant roar, the wood-dove's note,
Cursings and blessings, joy, and love, and strife
Seem of some other world, unreal, remote;
Death only seems to own
A soul, and ceaseth not to mock at life
Till here we meet alone;

But here no rival energies dispute
Death's lordship; therefore gracious grows his mien
And merciful; love's rebel mouth is mute;
Grief's passionate storm is spent,
And sinketh to a sadness more serene
Than joy's short-lived content;

For death has done his worst, and nothing now
Remains to fear; the wistful dreams which lay
In those deep eyes, the candour of that brow,
The hopes which had their birth
In that warm heart, can never know decay,
Or take the taint of earth.

Rapt in a moment from a world of flowers
And song and sunshine, May at her sweet best,
He will not taste the misery that sours
Love's cup at last, nor wake
To find hope's promise false, nor shrink from rest
Because dull day will break;

Tears will not rise at sight of Spring's young green,
Nor all that gave delight be over-grown
With sad remembrances, nor each dear scene
Be haunted by regret,
Till old age turn the weary heart to stone,
And life's pale planet set;

The swiftness of his joy will never tire;
Ah! well for him!—better to be uptorn
In Springtime's golden leaf, with love's pure fire
Glowing in every vein,
Than, branch by branch, to rot and fall, outworn
With labour, grief, and pain.

For him 'tis well indeed; but we, who still
Must drain the cup of sorrow to the lees,
Pine for the impulse of his ardent will,
Need his fresh strength to brace
Our weakness; nor can faith or hope appease
The hunger for his face.

For us remain the fever and the fray.
Whether he simply sleeps, or quits him well
In some diviner conflict, who shall say?
We trust love doth not die,
But only know him gone, and cannot tell
Whither he went, or why.

To fight our best, and take no count of death—
This high command is all our guidance here;
And how and when each soldier perisheth
Must rest with Him Who plans
The battle; to what issue, in what sphere,
Is God's concern, not man's.

Yet in the pauses of life's bitter stress,
For those whose autumn sky was overcast,
'Twas good to bask in love's young happiness;
Alas! the joy he lent
To poorer lives is like a summer past;
That treasure too is spent.

O all bright things that knew him not, be glad;
O birds that tune your love-notes o'er his grave,
Sing sweeter still; he would not wish you sad;
Fling your full hearts across
The silence of his death, that Earth may have
No feeling of her loss;

But we, who knew and loved his presence here,
In toil for others' joy must seek relief,
For others' sakes not let our pain appear,
Knowing for him 'tis well,
Though deep within our souls the pulse of grief
Throbs like a funeral bell.