The poetical works of James Montgomery collected by himself |
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THE CHOLERA MOUNT.
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 | The poetical works of James Montgomery |  |
THE CHOLERA MOUNT.
LINES ON THE BURYING-PLACE FOR PATIENTS WHO DIED OF CHOLERA MORBUS: A PLEASANT EMINENCE IN SHEFFIELD PARK.
[_]
Written during the prevalence of the disease in 1832, and while great terror of infection from it was experienced throughout the kingdom, sanctioned by legislative authority requiring the separate interment of its unfortunate victims.
In death divided from their dearest kin,
This is “a field to bury strangers in:”
Fragments, from families untimely reft,
Like spoils in flight or limbs in battle left,
Lie here;—a sad community, whose bones
Might feel, methinks, a pang to quicken stones;
While from beneath my feet they seem to cry,
“Oh! is it nought to you, ye passers by!
When from its earthly house the spirit fled,
Our dust might not be ‘free among the dead?’
Ah! why were we to this Siberia sent,
Doom'd in the grave itself to banishment?”
This is “a field to bury strangers in:”
Fragments, from families untimely reft,
Like spoils in flight or limbs in battle left,
Lie here;—a sad community, whose bones
Might feel, methinks, a pang to quicken stones;
338
“Oh! is it nought to you, ye passers by!
When from its earthly house the spirit fled,
Our dust might not be ‘free among the dead?’
Ah! why were we to this Siberia sent,
Doom'd in the grave itself to banishment?”
Shuddering humanity asks, “Who are these?
And what their crime?”—They fell by one disease!
By the blue pest, whose gripe no art can shun,
No force unwrench, out-singled one by one;
When, like a monstrous birth, the womb of fate
Bore a new death of unrecorded date,
And doubtful name.—Far east the fiend begun
Its course; thence round the world pursued the sun,
The ghosts of millions following at its back,
Whose desecrated graves betray'd their track.
On Albion's shores unseen the invader stept;
Secret and swift through field and city swept ;
At noon, at midnight, seized the weak, the strong,
Asleep, awake, alone, amid the throng;
Kill'd like a murderer; fix'd its icy hold,
And wrung out life with agony of cold;
Nor stay'd its vengeance where it crush'd the prey,
But set a mark, like Cain's, upon their clay,
And this tremendous seal impress'd on all,—
“Bury me out of sight and out of call.”
And what their crime?”—They fell by one disease!
By the blue pest, whose gripe no art can shun,
No force unwrench, out-singled one by one;
When, like a monstrous birth, the womb of fate
Bore a new death of unrecorded date,
And doubtful name.—Far east the fiend begun
Its course; thence round the world pursued the sun,
The ghosts of millions following at its back,
Whose desecrated graves betray'd their track.
On Albion's shores unseen the invader stept;
Secret and swift through field and city swept ;
At noon, at midnight, seized the weak, the strong,
Asleep, awake, alone, amid the throng;
Kill'd like a murderer; fix'd its icy hold,
And wrung out life with agony of cold;
Nor stay'd its vengeance where it crush'd the prey,
But set a mark, like Cain's, upon their clay,
And this tremendous seal impress'd on all,—
“Bury me out of sight and out of call.”
Wherefore no filial foot this turf may tread,
No kneeling mother kiss her baby's bed;
No maiden unespoused, with widow'd sighs,
Seek her soul's treasure where her true love lies:
—All stand aloof, and eye this mount from far,
As panic-stricken crowds some baleful star,
Strange to the heavens, that, with bewilder'd light,
Like a lost spirit, wanders through the night.
No kneeling mother kiss her baby's bed;
No maiden unespoused, with widow'd sighs,
Seek her soul's treasure where her true love lies:
—All stand aloof, and eye this mount from far,
As panic-stricken crowds some baleful star,
Strange to the heavens, that, with bewilder'd light,
Like a lost spirit, wanders through the night.
Yet many a mourner weeps her fallen state,
In many a home by these left desolate,
Once warm with love, and radiant with the smiles
Of woman, watching infants at their wiles,
Whose eye of thought, when now they throng her knees,
Pictures far other scene than that she sees,
For one is wanting,—one, for whose dear sake
Her heart for very tenderness would ache,
As now with anguish,—doubled when she spies
In this his lineaments, in that his eyes,
In each his image with her own commix'd,
And there, at least, through life their union fix'd.
In many a home by these left desolate,
Once warm with love, and radiant with the smiles
Of woman, watching infants at their wiles,
Whose eye of thought, when now they throng her knees,
Pictures far other scene than that she sees,
For one is wanting,—one, for whose dear sake
Her heart for very tenderness would ache,
As now with anguish,—doubled when she spies
In this his lineaments, in that his eyes,
In each his image with her own commix'd,
And there, at least, through life their union fix'd.
Humanity again asks, “Who are these?
And what their crime?”—They fell by one disease;
Not by the Proteus-maladies that strike
Man into nothingness, not twice alike;
But when they knock'd for entrance at the tomb,
Their fathers' bones refused to make them room;
Recoiling Nature from their presence fled,
As though a thunderbolt had smote them dead;
Their cries pursued her with the thrilling plea,
“Give us a little earth for charity!”
She linger'd, listen'd, all her bosom yearn'd,
Through every vein the mother's pulse return'd;
Then, as she halted on this hill, she threw
Her mantle wide, and loose her tresses flew:
“Live!” to the slain, she cried, “My children, live!
This for an heritage to you I give:
Had death consumed you by the common lot,
You with the multitude had been forgot,
Now through an age of ages shall ye not.”
And what their crime?”—They fell by one disease;
Not by the Proteus-maladies that strike
Man into nothingness, not twice alike;
But when they knock'd for entrance at the tomb,
Their fathers' bones refused to make them room;
Recoiling Nature from their presence fled,
As though a thunderbolt had smote them dead;
Their cries pursued her with the thrilling plea,
“Give us a little earth for charity!”
She linger'd, listen'd, all her bosom yearn'd,
Through every vein the mother's pulse return'd;
Then, as she halted on this hill, she threw
Her mantle wide, and loose her tresses flew:
“Live!” to the slain, she cried, “My children, live!
This for an heritage to you I give:
Had death consumed you by the common lot,
You with the multitude had been forgot,
Now through an age of ages shall ye not.”
Thus Nature spake; and, as her echo, I
Take up her parable, and prophesy:
—Here, as from Spring to Spring the swallows pass,
Perennial daisies shall adorn the grass;
Here the shrill sky-lark build her annual nest,
And sing in heaven while you serenely rest:
On trembling dew-drops morn's first glance shall shine,
Eve's latest beams on this fair bank decline,
And oft the rainbow steal through light and gloom,
To throw its sudden arch across your tomb;
On you the moon her sweetest influence shower,
And every planet bless you in its hour.
Take up her parable, and prophesy:
—Here, as from Spring to Spring the swallows pass,
Perennial daisies shall adorn the grass;
Here the shrill sky-lark build her annual nest,
And sing in heaven while you serenely rest:
On trembling dew-drops morn's first glance shall shine,
Eve's latest beams on this fair bank decline,
And oft the rainbow steal through light and gloom,
To throw its sudden arch across your tomb;
On you the moon her sweetest influence shower,
And every planet bless you in its hour.
With statelier honours still, in time's slow round,
Shall this sepulchral eminence be crown'd,
Where generations long to come shall hail
The growth of centuries waving in the gale,
A forest landmark on the mountain's head,
Standing betwixt the living and the dead,
Nor, while your language lasts, shall traveller cease
To say, at sight of your memorial, “Peace!”
Your voice of silence answering from the sod,
“Whoe'er thou art, prepare to meet thy God!”
Shall this sepulchral eminence be crown'd,
Where generations long to come shall hail
The growth of centuries waving in the gale,
A forest landmark on the mountain's head,
Standing betwixt the living and the dead,
Nor, while your language lasts, shall traveller cease
To say, at sight of your memorial, “Peace!”
Your voice of silence answering from the sod,
“Whoe'er thou art, prepare to meet thy God!”
1832.
| The poetical works of James Montgomery | |