 | Outlines of Edinburgh, and Other Poems |  |
79
A SEA-SIDE REVERIE.
“The voices of the dead, and songs of other years.”
Heber.
Heber.
Is there a place where the souls of the just,
Forsaking mortality's loathsome dust,
In purity rest till that awful day,
When this sorrowing world shall pass away?
When after this short life's terrible close,
And after death's icy and dark repose,
The good and the guilty that trump shall hear—
A summons of joy, or a sound of fear—
That last loud trump, whose awakening call
Shall proclaim the eternal doom of all.
Forsaking mortality's loathsome dust,
In purity rest till that awful day,
When this sorrowing world shall pass away?
When after this short life's terrible close,
And after death's icy and dark repose,
The good and the guilty that trump shall hear—
A summons of joy, or a sound of fear—
That last loud trump, whose awakening call
Shall proclaim the eternal doom of all.
80
Is there a place where the spirits of bliss
Can look down on a world so sad as this?
Where, with purest love, they behold the worth
Of the faithful hearts whom they left on earth?
Or can the soul's intellectual flame
Lie torpid and cold with man's mortal frame,
Like that in corruption's arms to await,
An endless pain, or a happier state?
Can the mind of man, the immortal soul,
Which on earth seems bounding from earth's control—
Can that spirit by death to flesh be link'd
All its ardour quench'd, and its hope extinct?
Oh, no! there's a bright and a blissful sphere,
Where it soars when freed from its bondage here;
And it soothes the mourner's heart to think
While in tears he bends o'er the cold grave's brink—
It soothes his sorrowing heart to know,
Though the form he lov'd may moulder below—
The spirit he lov'd—the immortal part—
The truth, and the love, and the goodness of heart,
And the faith which raises the mind to God—
These never can rest in death's dark abode;
And though mortal eyes cannot pierce the gloom,
The mysterious realms beyond the tomb—
Though we know too well, that when life is o'er
The lov'd ones depart, and are seen no more—
Yet we feel (and there's comfort in feeling thus)
They live, though unheard and unseen by us;
And we think, though freed from all earthly ill,
They hover in pity around us still.
Can look down on a world so sad as this?
Where, with purest love, they behold the worth
Of the faithful hearts whom they left on earth?
Or can the soul's intellectual flame
Lie torpid and cold with man's mortal frame,
Like that in corruption's arms to await,
An endless pain, or a happier state?
Can the mind of man, the immortal soul,
Which on earth seems bounding from earth's control—
Can that spirit by death to flesh be link'd
All its ardour quench'd, and its hope extinct?
Oh, no! there's a bright and a blissful sphere,
Where it soars when freed from its bondage here;
And it soothes the mourner's heart to think
While in tears he bends o'er the cold grave's brink—
It soothes his sorrowing heart to know,
Though the form he lov'd may moulder below—
81
The truth, and the love, and the goodness of heart,
And the faith which raises the mind to God—
These never can rest in death's dark abode;
And though mortal eyes cannot pierce the gloom,
The mysterious realms beyond the tomb—
Though we know too well, that when life is o'er
The lov'd ones depart, and are seen no more—
Yet we feel (and there's comfort in feeling thus)
They live, though unheard and unseen by us;
And we think, though freed from all earthly ill,
They hover in pity around us still.
Oh! who that has rov'd by the pale moon's light,
In the deep repose of a summer's night—
When the gray mist rests on the meadows green,
And the distant mountains are dimly seen—
When the sea in its rage resounds no more,
But in murmuring whispers seeks the shore,
As calm, as if ever at rest, it flows,
The faithless calm of a lion's repose—
When the tranquil wind is so soft and weak,
That there's warmth in the breeze that fans your cheek—
When nothing is heard but the sea-bird's note,
Or a lively song from a fisherman's boat,
Or the rills which, gushing through arching caves,
At intervals drip in the dark blue waves:—
Oh! who that has rov'd in a night like this,
And thought of the phantoms of boyish bliss—
When every thought must have caus'd a sigh,
And a burning tear for days gone by—
Oh! who has not gaz'd on the clear sky then,
With thoughts never utter'd, though felt by men,
Till his heart was sad, and his eyes were dim,
And the scenes of this world were lost to him;
And, unaided by sight, he seem'd to view
Realms deep in the sky's dark beautiful blue—
Realms brighter than all he had thought most bright—
Delightful, exceeding this world's delight;
With all that his youth thought purest and best,
Made purer and better—by angels blest.
In the deep repose of a summer's night—
When the gray mist rests on the meadows green,
And the distant mountains are dimly seen—
82
But in murmuring whispers seeks the shore,
As calm, as if ever at rest, it flows,
The faithless calm of a lion's repose—
When the tranquil wind is so soft and weak,
That there's warmth in the breeze that fans your cheek—
When nothing is heard but the sea-bird's note,
Or a lively song from a fisherman's boat,
Or the rills which, gushing through arching caves,
At intervals drip in the dark blue waves:—
Oh! who that has rov'd in a night like this,
And thought of the phantoms of boyish bliss—
When every thought must have caus'd a sigh,
And a burning tear for days gone by—
Oh! who has not gaz'd on the clear sky then,
With thoughts never utter'd, though felt by men,
Till his heart was sad, and his eyes were dim,
And the scenes of this world were lost to him;
83
Realms deep in the sky's dark beautiful blue—
Realms brighter than all he had thought most bright—
Delightful, exceeding this world's delight;
With all that his youth thought purest and best,
Made purer and better—by angels blest.
With feelings like these, I have often stood
Near the ocean, in night's calm solitude,
And gaz'd from the beach and its sounding surge,
To the misty horizon's utmost verge,
Where one soften'd tint is perceiv'd alone,
And water and sky seem to melt in one;
And then while the tremulous moonbeams shine
On the waves, in a dazzling and golden line,
Which, unquench'd and glowing, appears to glide
Like a lava stream through the darker tide:
Then, whilst on the waters I mutely gaze,
I think of the pleasures of other days;
And the faces and forms so sadly dear:
And the words I heard, but no more can hear;
And the tales that can never again be told;
And the pressure of hands that now are cold;—
'Tis then we encourage the fond belief,
That those whom we grieve for behold our grief;
That from them we receive the Hope, which takes
The severest pang from a heart that aches;
And when we remember that they are blest,
And that we are in sorrow, we feel 'tis best
To follow their steps in Death's awful track,
Without one selfish wish to call them back.
Near the ocean, in night's calm solitude,
And gaz'd from the beach and its sounding surge,
To the misty horizon's utmost verge,
Where one soften'd tint is perceiv'd alone,
And water and sky seem to melt in one;
And then while the tremulous moonbeams shine
On the waves, in a dazzling and golden line,
Which, unquench'd and glowing, appears to glide
Like a lava stream through the darker tide:
84
I think of the pleasures of other days;
And the faces and forms so sadly dear:
And the words I heard, but no more can hear;
And the tales that can never again be told;
And the pressure of hands that now are cold;—
'Tis then we encourage the fond belief,
That those whom we grieve for behold our grief;
That from them we receive the Hope, which takes
The severest pang from a heart that aches;
And when we remember that they are blest,
And that we are in sorrow, we feel 'tis best
To follow their steps in Death's awful track,
Without one selfish wish to call them back.
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