 | The pink book |  |
15
THE OLD SEXTON.
A solitary 'mid the tombs,
By morning shine and evening glooms
He delveth, as he had the dooms
Of all men in his hands:
Grim worker among mould and stones—
Dealer in skulls and hollow bones—
Warden of shadowy lands!
By morning shine and evening glooms
He delveth, as he had the dooms
Of all men in his hands:
Grim worker among mould and stones—
Dealer in skulls and hollow bones—
Warden of shadowy lands!
Long years of toil have o'er him thrown
Their wearying load, and bent him down,
And he is wrinkled, lean, and brown,
And feebly draws his breath:
Yet here in this lonely cemet'ry,
He moils along contentedly,
The gardener of Death.
Their wearying load, and bent him down,
And he is wrinkled, lean, and brown,
And feebly draws his breath:
Yet here in this lonely cemet'ry,
He moils along contentedly,
The gardener of Death.
To-day he tolls a dismal knell—
The fleeting soul's sad passing bell;
To-morrow, to the vale doth tell
A wedding or a birth;
And now, upon its last chill bed,
He lays in peace the wanderer's head,
And drops the rattling earth.
The fleeting soul's sad passing bell;
To-morrow, to the vale doth tell
A wedding or a birth;
And now, upon its last chill bed,
He lays in peace the wanderer's head,
And drops the rattling earth.
16
But deem not that his heart should be
Devoid of warm humanity,
In long familiarity
With sorrow waxing old;
Uncannily he earns his bread,
And lives near neighbour to the dead;
Yet he hath not grown cold.
Devoid of warm humanity,
In long familiarity
With sorrow waxing old;
Uncannily he earns his bread,
And lives near neighbour to the dead;
Yet he hath not grown cold.
There is a love-kept mound where blow
Bright daisies, and the lily's snow
Hinteth at purity. Below
Do his beloved sleep;
And often at the set of sun,
When all his ghostly work is done,
He goeth there to weep.
Bright daisies, and the lily's snow
Hinteth at purity. Below
Do his beloved sleep;
And often at the set of sun,
When all his ghostly work is done,
He goeth there to weep.
And on the grass before him—lo!
His children running to and fro,
Once more he looks on that dear brow,
Made fairer by Heaven's seal;
And as the happy dream grows dim,
He wishes that his master grim
Would come and make it real.
His children running to and fro,
Once more he looks on that dear brow,
Made fairer by Heaven's seal;
And as the happy dream grows dim,
He wishes that his master grim
Would come and make it real.
17
It may not be. With Time, he goes
A shadow through that place of woes
World-worn, and fain to have repose
Yet murmuring not at fate,
It seems to him on life's dark edge
At once a joy and privilege
To trim that grave, and wait.
A shadow through that place of woes
World-worn, and fain to have repose
Yet murmuring not at fate,
It seems to him on life's dark edge
At once a joy and privilege
To trim that grave, and wait.
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