 | The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey |  |
174
THAT'S WHAT WE ARE.
Careful and troubled about many things—Alas! that it should be so with us still,
As in the days of Martha—I went forth,
Harassed and heartsick, with hot, aching brow,
Thought-fevered—haply to escape myself.
Beauteous that bright May morning—all about,
Sweet influences of earth, and air, and sky,
Harmoniously accordant. I alone—
The troubled spirit that had driven me forth—
In dissonance with that fair frame of things,
So blissfully serene. God had not yet
Let fall the weight of chastening, that makes dumb
The murmuring lip and stills the rebel heart,
Ending all earthly interests; and I called,
O heaven! that incomplete experience—Grief.
It would not do. The momentary sense
Of soft refreshing coolness passed away,
Back came the troublous thoughts, and all in vain
I strove with the tormentors: all in vain
Applied me with forced interest to peruse
Fair Nature's outspread volume: all in vain
Looked up admiring at the dappled clouds
And depths cerulean. Even as I gazed,
The film, the earthly film, obscured my vision,
And in a lower region, sore perplexed,
Again I wandered, and again shook off,
With vext impatience, the besetting cares,
And set me straight to gather, as I walked,
A field-flower nosegay. Plentiful the choice;
175
A glowing handful. In few moments more
Where were they? Dropping as I went along
Unheeded on my path; and I was gone—
Wandering far off, in maze of thought perplext.
Despairingly I sought the social scene—
Sound—motion—action—interchange of words,
Scarcely of mind—rare privilege!
Sound—motion—action—interchange of words,
Scarcely of mind—rare privilege!
We talked—
Oh! how we talked—discussed and solved all questions—
Religion, morals, manners, politics,
Physics and metaphysics, books and authors,
Fashion and dress, our neighbours and ourselves;
And ever as the senseless changes rang,
And I helped ring them, in my secret soul
Grew weariness, disgust, and self-contempt;
And, more disturbed in spirit, I resumed,
More cynically sad, my homeward way.
Oh! how we talked—discussed and solved all questions—
Religion, morals, manners, politics,
Physics and metaphysics, books and authors,
Fashion and dress, our neighbours and ourselves;
And ever as the senseless changes rang,
And I helped ring them, in my secret soul
Grew weariness, disgust, and self-contempt;
And, more disturbed in spirit, I resumed,
More cynically sad, my homeward way.
It led me through the Churchyard, and methought
There entering, as I let the iron gate
Swing to behind me, that the change was good,—
The unquiet living for the quiet dead.
And at that moment, from the old church-tower
A knell resounded—“Man to his long home
Drew near”—“The mourners went about the streets;”
And there, few paces onward, to the right,
Close by the pathway, lay an open grave—
Not of the humbler sort, shaped newly out,
Narrow and deep, in the dark mould; when filled
To be roofed over by the living sod,
And left for all adornment (and so best)
To Nature's reverential hand.
There entering, as I let the iron gate
Swing to behind me, that the change was good,—
The unquiet living for the quiet dead.
And at that moment, from the old church-tower
A knell resounded—“Man to his long home
Drew near”—“The mourners went about the streets;”
And there, few paces onward, to the right,
Close by the pathway, lay an open grave—
Not of the humbler sort, shaped newly out,
Narrow and deep, in the dark mould; when filled
To be roofed over by the living sod,
And left for all adornment (and so best)
To Nature's reverential hand.
176
The tomb
Made ready there for a new habitant
Was that of an old family: I knew it—
A very ancient altar-tomb, where Time
With his rough fretwork mocked the sculptor's art,
Feebly elaborate; heraldic shield
And mortuary emblems half effaced;
Deep sunken at one end, of many names
Graven with suitable inscription, each
Upon the shelving slab and sides, scarce now
Might any but an antiquarian eye
Make out a letter. Five-and-fifty years
The door of that dark dwelling had shut in
The last admitted sleeper. She, 'twas said,
Died of a broken heart—a widowed mother
Following her only child, by violent death
Cut off untimely—and the whisper went,
By his own hand. The tomb was ancient then,
When they two were interred; and they the first
For whom, within the memory of man,
It had been opened; and their names filled up—
With sharp-cut newness mocking the old stone—
The last remaining space. And so it seemed
The gathering was complete; the appointed number
Laid in the sleeping chamber, and sealed up
Inviolate, till the great reckoning day.
The few remaining of the name dispersed,
The family fortunes dwindled, till at last
They sank into decay, and out of sight,
And out of memory; till an aged man,
Passed by some parish very far away,
To die in ours—his legal settlement—
Claimed kindred with the long-forgotten race,
Its sole survivor, and in right thereof—
Of that affinity—to moulder with them
In the old family grave.
Made ready there for a new habitant
Was that of an old family: I knew it—
A very ancient altar-tomb, where Time
With his rough fretwork mocked the sculptor's art,
Feebly elaborate; heraldic shield
And mortuary emblems half effaced;
Deep sunken at one end, of many names
Graven with suitable inscription, each
Upon the shelving slab and sides, scarce now
Might any but an antiquarian eye
Make out a letter. Five-and-fifty years
The door of that dark dwelling had shut in
The last admitted sleeper. She, 'twas said,
Died of a broken heart—a widowed mother
Following her only child, by violent death
Cut off untimely—and the whisper went,
By his own hand. The tomb was ancient then,
When they two were interred; and they the first
For whom, within the memory of man,
It had been opened; and their names filled up—
With sharp-cut newness mocking the old stone—
The last remaining space. And so it seemed
The gathering was complete; the appointed number
Laid in the sleeping chamber, and sealed up
Inviolate, till the great reckoning day.
The few remaining of the name dispersed,
The family fortunes dwindled, till at last
They sank into decay, and out of sight,
And out of memory; till an aged man,
Passed by some parish very far away,
To die in ours—his legal settlement—
Claimed kindred with the long-forgotten race,
Its sole survivor, and in right thereof—
177
In the old family grave.
“A natural wish,”
Said the authorities; and “sure enough
He was of the old stock—the last descendant;
And it would cost no more to bury him
Under the old cracked tombstone, with its scutcheons,
Than in the common ground.” So graciously
The boon was granted, and he died content.
And now the pauper's funeral had set forth,
And the bell tolled—not many strokes nor long—
Pauper's allowance;—he was coming home.
But while the train was yet a good way off—
The workhouse burial train—I stopt to look
Upon the scene before me; and methought—
Oh! that some gifted painter could behold
And give duration to that living picture,
So rich in moral and pictorial beauty,
If seen arightly by the spiritual eye,
As with the bodily organ!
Said the authorities; and “sure enough
He was of the old stock—the last descendant;
And it would cost no more to bury him
Under the old cracked tombstone, with its scutcheons,
Than in the common ground.” So graciously
The boon was granted, and he died content.
And now the pauper's funeral had set forth,
And the bell tolled—not many strokes nor long—
Pauper's allowance;—he was coming home.
But while the train was yet a good way off—
The workhouse burial train—I stopt to look
Upon the scene before me; and methought—
Oh! that some gifted painter could behold
And give duration to that living picture,
So rich in moral and pictorial beauty,
If seen arightly by the spiritual eye,
As with the bodily organ!
The old tomb,
With its quaint tracery, gilded here and there
With sunlight glancing through the o'erarching lime,
Far flinging its cool shadow, flickering light;
Our grey-haired sexton, with his hard grey face—
A living tombstone—resting on his mattock
By the low portal; and just over right,
His back against the lime-tree, his thin hands
Locked in each other, hanging down before him
As with their own dead weight, a tall slim youth,
With hollow hectic cheek, and pale parched lip,
And labouring breath, and eye upon the ground
Fast rooted, as if taking measurement
Betime for his own grave. I stopt a moment,
Contemplating those thinkers—Youth and Age
Marked for the sickle, as it seemed, the unripe
To be first gathered. Stepping forward, then,
Down to the house of death, with vague expectance
I sent a curious, not unshrinking gaze.
There lay the burning head and broken heart
Long, long at rest; and many a thing beside
That had been life—warm, sentient, busy life!—
Had hungered, thirsted, laughed, wept, hoped, and feared,
Hated and loved, enjoyed and agonised.
Where of all this was all I looked to see?—
The mass of crumbling coffins, some belike
Flattened and shapeless? Even in this damp vault
With more completeness could the old Destroyer
Have done his darkling work? Yet lo! I looked
Into a small square chamber, swept and clean,
Except that on one side, against the wall,
Lay a few fragments of dark rotten wood,
And a small heap of fine, rich, reddish earth
Was piled up in a corner.
With its quaint tracery, gilded here and there
With sunlight glancing through the o'erarching lime,
Far flinging its cool shadow, flickering light;
Our grey-haired sexton, with his hard grey face—
A living tombstone—resting on his mattock
By the low portal; and just over right,
His back against the lime-tree, his thin hands
Locked in each other, hanging down before him
As with their own dead weight, a tall slim youth,
With hollow hectic cheek, and pale parched lip,
And labouring breath, and eye upon the ground
Fast rooted, as if taking measurement
Betime for his own grave. I stopt a moment,
178
Marked for the sickle, as it seemed, the unripe
To be first gathered. Stepping forward, then,
Down to the house of death, with vague expectance
I sent a curious, not unshrinking gaze.
There lay the burning head and broken heart
Long, long at rest; and many a thing beside
That had been life—warm, sentient, busy life!—
Had hungered, thirsted, laughed, wept, hoped, and feared,
Hated and loved, enjoyed and agonised.
Where of all this was all I looked to see?—
The mass of crumbling coffins, some belike
Flattened and shapeless? Even in this damp vault
With more completeness could the old Destroyer
Have done his darkling work? Yet lo! I looked
Into a small square chamber, swept and clean,
Except that on one side, against the wall,
Lay a few fragments of dark rotten wood,
And a small heap of fine, rich, reddish earth
Was piled up in a corner.
“How is this?”
In stupid wonderment I asked myself,
And dull of apprehension. Turning then
To the old Sexton—“Tell me, friend,” I said,
“Here should be many coffins—where are they?”
He raised his eyes to mine with a strange look
In stupid wonderment I asked myself,
And dull of apprehension. Turning then
To the old Sexton—“Tell me, friend,” I said,
“Here should be many coffins—where are they?”
And strangely meaning smile; and I repeated—
For not a word he spoke—my witless question.
Then with a deep distinctness he made answer,
Distinct and slow, looking to where I pointed,
Thence full into my face, and what he said
Thrilled through my very heart—“That's what we are!”
179
So I was answered. Sermons upon Death
I had heard many: Lectures by the score
Upon Life's vanities; but never words
Of mortal preacher to my heart struck home
With such convicting sense and suddenness,
As the plain-spoken homily, so brief,
Of that unlettered man.
I had heard many: Lectures by the score
Upon Life's vanities; but never words
Of mortal preacher to my heart struck home
With such convicting sense and suddenness,
As the plain-spoken homily, so brief,
Of that unlettered man.
“That's what we are!”
Repeating after him, I murmured low,
In meek acknowledgment, and bowed the head
Profoundly reverential. A deep calm
Came over me, and to the inward eye
Vivid perception. Set against each other
I saw weighed out the things of Time and Sense,
And of Eternity; and oh! how light
Looked in that truthful hour the earthly scale!
And oh! what strength, when from the penal doom
Nature recoiled, in His remembered words—
“I am the Resurrection and the Life!”
And other words of that Divinest Speaker—
Repeating after him, I murmured low,
In meek acknowledgment, and bowed the head
Profoundly reverential. A deep calm
Came over me, and to the inward eye
Vivid perception. Set against each other
I saw weighed out the things of Time and Sense,
And of Eternity; and oh! how light
Looked in that truthful hour the earthly scale!
And oh! what strength, when from the penal doom
Nature recoiled, in His remembered words—
“I am the Resurrection and the Life!”
Words to all mourners of all time addressed—
Seemed spoken to me as I went along
In prayerful thought, slow musing on my way—
“Believe in me. Let not your hearts be troubled.”
And sure I could have promised in that hour,
But that I knew myself how fallible,
That never more should cross or care of life
Disquiet or distress me. So I came,
Chastened in spirit, to my home again,
Composed ann comforted, and crossed the threshold
That day “a wiser, not a sadder.” woman.
| The Poetical Works of Caroline Bowles Southey | |