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79
THE CONSOLATION.
Myriads of creatures breathe joyous breath,While she lies asleep on her bed of death;
Myriads of creatures still bless the sun—
For her the sweet glories of earth are done!
The Summer, with all her gifts and her spells,
In vain round her place of abiding dwells;
Her most precious breathings are powerless here—
Her loveliest splendours shew dim and drear;
Her thousands of roses are scattered in vain,
Her flower-lighting dews and perfuming rain—
Those dancing and fragrant rains, that shine
Like diamond-sparks of some rifted mine.
But Summer in vain o'er the waste must sweep—
Summer broods colourless o'er the old deep;
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Is deaf to her voices of hope and mirth.
Summer and Death! O! they mournfully meet
With conflicting influence strange and sweet;
For Summer hath glorious airs and skies;
And our thoughts—those young immortalities!—
Will link their loveliness with a breath
Of the eternal being that knows not death!
Thus, Summer and Death may solemnly meet,
And with bright and breathless stillness greet—
But she who, in silence and darkness, now
Hath bowed her head and hath veiled her brow—
In joy and in summer she takes no part,
Though, as a breeze, they once ruffled her heart.
In the unsunned sabbath of the tomb,
All—all is weighty and frozen gloom.
The sabbath of the tomb!—not so!
Thou'rt where the immortal fountains flow;
Where fitful cloud or changeful breeze
Comes not 'mongst ever-flowering trees;
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Lingers no echo's lamenting note—
No perishing flower—no withering leaf,
Sheds round a something like care and grief!
Thy starry being hath nought to fear
Of the change and ruin awaiting us here—
Thou'rt 'mongst the unwithering golden bowers,
Which own not the reign of earth's cloudy hours,
Where life is music and precious light,
Unbroken by sighs—unbreathed on by blight;
While the softly rosy and crystal air
Is thrilled but by seraph-breathings there!
O! that summer of heaven shall pass not away,
Nor eve's hyacinth hues o'ersweep the bright day!
In thoughts like these I can hang o'er thy tomb,
Nor feel its infection of desolate gloom;
They gird my soul with a haughty joy—
Haughty!—not so; pure from earth's alloy,—
O! pure from aught of prevailing dust
Be my thoughts of thee!—and they must—they must!
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Through my thrilled soul, some streams of wo
At times will pass, like the clouds that cross
Our summer heav'n; then I feel but thy loss—
Ay! sounds and shadows, now dwelling, now dying,
Like south-winds through broken harp-strings sighing,
Will sway me with sudden and hidden power,
Till I shrink from Mem'ry's long-treasured dower.
O, there's not a bird—a star—a leaf—
That hath not her spell to awaken grief,
Didst thou in thy triumph's hour, beautiful Hope!
Not sustain a spirit too prompt to droop!
Summer, and Love, and Death, are here,
Yet my soul shall not bow to bitter fear;
But with strengthened consciousness,—heightened trust,—
Pass its fleeting hour in its coil of dust!
Till, forgetting what 'twas to moan and weep,
With one conquering burst—with one mastering sweep—
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To realms where the fulness of glory reigns!
Beyond the worlds, the graves, the storms—
Where, crowned for Eternity, glorious forms—
Mighty—in uttermost beauty shine,
And Love, undimmed by Death, is divine!
With thoughts like these in my silent breast,
I keep vigils calm o'er thy place of rest,
With a solemn tenderness—chastened hope—
That dares not, and deigns not, to sink and droop;
But most by the precious thoughts sustained
Of our spirit-meeting—unchecked, unchained!
Where soul unto soul shall bound and cling,
And Grief melt away a forgotten thing!
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