University of Virginia Library

Merrily bounding came the blithsome troop,
Full of young energy, and joy, and hope;
Then saw their little comrade to the grave
Bestowed—but sure no solemn thoughts they gave
To that most solemn ceremonial—no!—
Soon as the appointed words were said, with glow
Of eager pleasure, round the new interred
They crowded: one, all fluttering like a bird,
And as a bee all busy—in full glee
I there remarked in dimpled infancy,
With an impatient and disguiseless joy,
(A frolick-lover was that rose-cheek'd boy—
I doubt not, and a mischief-lover too,
With his curled lip and cunning eye of blue:)
A sexton's spade he seized, that lay beside
That humble grave, so lately opened wide,
And now for ever on its tenant closed,
That ne'er so calm on mother-knees reposed;
That sexton's spade that lay beside he seized,
And set himself to work, well, right well, pleased,
Fast shovelling down the earth upon the dead—
Heaping it thick upon the unconscious head
Pillowed beneath how calmly, so i' the face
Those peasant-children look on Death, nor trace
Those horrors in his mien that millions do;
They challenge him, and they caress him too—
The mighty Spoiler of the Earth appears
To have respect thus for their tender years:
His shadowy face their little hands caress—
He seems to take them in his arms and bless—
And whisper gently in their ear the while,
With something like the dawning of a smile,
“When weary of this world ye pant for rest—
Will I enfold ye to my peaceful breast!”—

What want these Babes Philosophers should have!
They play with Death, make merry with the Grave—
Extract with perfect wisdom, as we see,
From heaviest hap—but fearless joy and glee—
From shadows force the substance of their bliss,
Yet yield no substance in exchange for this—
Content with what they have, they seek no more,
Yet everywhere they find a boundless store.
Death! dreadful angel! art not half dismayed
To meet with things so free and unafraid?—
The close-clasped hands—the supplicating knee,
The imploring accents ever wait on thee—
But these—these rosy young Philosophers
Thy shadowy aspect awes not, nor deters—
They clap their little hands, and shout and dance,
E'en in the eclipse of thy dread countenance.
They climb thy awful knees—nor dream of doom—
As they might climb their father's knees at home;
They twine their fingers in thy cloudy hair—
And stroke thy hollow cheek, and smile and stare,
And pry and peep, with lurking laughter sly,
And childish mirth of curiosity;
They call thee by some light name of their own,
And fear thee less than the old stern sullen crone—
Who lifts her crutch and threats them with a blow—
Thou!—the Great Conqueror—the resistless Foe!—
From whom the monarch shrinks in pale dismay,
When some dark warning meets him in his way,
Whom e'en the sage recoils from, while his lore
Melts from his troubled mind and lives no more!
Oh! thou resistless and tremendous Death!—
Thou callest, and at once we yield our breath,
Forget ourselves—our world—our thoughts, our ties,
And die as meanly as the insect dies.
Thy presence proves the proudest but a worm,
Thy overpowering, all o'ershadowing form
Dwarfs—to one level all the mightest here,
And makes the loftiest low indeed appear.
E'en from these little children let me learn
A fearless gaze on thee, at length, to turn;
But not—in their light ignorance—not so!
For I would pierce the mighty truth and know!
Oh! Death, when steadfastly we look on thee—
We mark and own thy bright Divinity.
We see thee, not a tyrant harsh and stern,
Heaping pale ashes in thy charnel-urn;
But as our guide, in gentleness and love,
From earth to the everlasting realms above.