My Lyrical Life :: :: University of Virginia Library

Old Winter blows, and whistles hard,
To keep his fingers warm, while I
Shut out the cold night, frosty-starred,
Bleak earth and bitter sky;
And to the Fireplace nestle nigher,
To pore on pictures in the Fire.

It has a soft, blithe, murmuring glow,
As if it crooned a cradle-song;
Yet whispers of some awful woe
Are on each flaming tongue
That may have licked up human life,
Quick, ruddy as a murderer's knife!

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I see the Dead Men underground,
Just as they found them rank on rank;
Old Mothers—Young Wives—red-eyed round
The Corpses brought to bank;
I see the mournful phantoms flit
About the mouth of Hartley Pit;

And that poor Widow above the rest
All eminent in Suffering's crown,
Who wearing sorrow's loftiest crest
Is bowed the lowliest down;
Poor Widow with her Coffins seven,
Look down on Her, dear God in Heaven!

I hear that crash with sinking heart—
Eternity has broken through!
I see him play his Hero part,
A leader tried and true,
Who faithful stood to his last breath,
And fell betwixt them and their death.

I hear him bid them trim their lamps—
For Light hath not gone out in Heaven!
And through the dark, above the damps,
He beacons them to haven:
Long in his eyes had lived the light
That should make starry such a Night.

I see the strong man's agony,
That seeks to rend his ghastly shroud;
The touch of solemn radiancy
That kindles through the cloud;
The trust that earned a nobler doom
Than such a death in such a tomb;

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The valour that invisibly
Lifted the bosom like a targe;
The hidden forces that must be,
Ready for Life's last charge!
And all the bravery brave in vain,
And all the majesty of pain:

Visions of the old Home that flash
With all the mind's last mortal power;
The tears that burn their way, to wash
A soul white in an hour,
When thoughts of God go deeper than
The Devil at his utmost can.

I hear the poor faint heart's low cry
That sickens at the sight of Doom;
The prayer of those that feel it nigh,
And groping through the gloom!
They cower together hand-in-hand
At the dark door of the dark land.

Ghostly and far away life seems
To one returning from a swound;
And sharp the sorrow comes in dreams
When we are helpless bound;
But deathliest swoons, or ghastliest nights,
Have no such sounds, or spirit-sights.

The waiting human world is near,
Yet farther off than Heaven for them
Who bow the doomèd head, to bear
Death's cruel diadem,
With farewell words of solemn cheer
And love for those who cannot hear:

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Old heads with hair like spray above
A tossed and troubled sea of life;
Young hearts, just kissed to the quick by Love,
That leave a one-day wife.
O pathos of a hopeless fate!
O pain of those left desolate!

'Tis brave to die in Battle's flash,
For the dear country we adore—
Struck breathless 'mid the glorious crash,
When banners wave before
The fading eyes, and at the ears
We are caught by following Victory's cheers!

And sailor-blood that on the waves
Can feel the Mother's heaving breast—
True sailor-blood no wailing craves
Over its place of rest,
When souls first taste eternity
In those last kisses of the Sea:

And Death oft comes with kind release
To win a smile from those that lie
Where they may feel the blessèd breeze,
And look up at the sky,
And drink in, with their latest sigh,
A little air for strength to die:

But 'tis a fearful thing to be
Instantly buried alive; fast-bound
In cold arms of Eternity
That clasp the breathing round,
And hold them though their Comrades call
And dig with efforts useless all.

119

A tear for those who, in that night,
Went down so unavailingly;
A cheer for those who fought our fight,
And missed the victory!
Peace to the good true hearts that gave
A moral glory to that grave!

We know not how amid the gloom
Some jewel of the just outshone;
With precious sparkle lit the tomb
And led the hopeless on
To hope, and showed the only way
To find God's hand and reach His day.

We know not how in that quick hour
Some poor uncultured human clod
May have put forth its one sweet flower,
Acceptable to God:
Or how the touch of Death revealed
Some buried beauty life concealed:

We know now how the Dove of peace
Came brooding on the fluttering breast,
To make the fond life-yearnings cease,
And fold them up for rest;
And into shining shape the soul
Burst, like the flame from out the coal:

We only know the watch-fires burned
Long in their eyes for human aid,
And failed, and then to God they turned,
And altogether prayed,
And that the deepest Mine may be,
For prayer, God's whispering Gallery!

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Dear God, be very pitiful
To these poor toiling slaves of men;
Be gracious if their hearts be dull
With darkness of their den:
'Tis hard for flowers of Heaven to grow
Down where the earth-flowers cannot blow!

Their lives are as the Candle-snuff,
Black in the midst of its own light!
Let hard hands plead for spirits rough—
They work so much in night.
Be merciful, they breathe their breath
So close to danger, pain, and death.

The love-mist in a Father's eye
Must rise, and soften much that's rude
In his poor children—magnify
The least faint gleam of good!
O, find some place for human worth
In Heaven, when it has failed on Earth.