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 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
Forgive one lingering note! A thousand years
From Aymund's death were ending, when—with tears—
I saw an Old Man from his home conveyed,
And in the same place reverently laid.
He was a Peasant, whose long life had been
Of toil and labour one unvaried scene.
He fought no battles, save with Want. His name
No splendour had, save that of honest fame.
And when he died, no stone arose to tell
Where, after all his ills, he sleeps so well.
To me—who missed him longest, mourned him most—
Even to me, that Old Man's grave is lost,
As much is lost to all that would explore,
As His, who died a thousand years before.
Both equal now—no vestige to evince
Where lies the Peasant, where was laid the Prince!
From Aymund's death were ending, when—with tears—
I saw an Old Man from his home conveyed,
And in the same place reverently laid.
My father died in 1809, and was buried in the churchyard of of Kirk Newton. I may be pardoned for adding a single memorial of him. He and two brothers, when children, had been left orphans, of whom my father was the eldest, and consequently the most capable of feeling the loss they had sustained. Having been told that his father and mother had gone to Heaven, he used to steal out of an evening, and watch the first stars that appeared in the west, fondly dreaming that they might be the eyes of the Departed, gazing upon the son of their love! The thought always filled his own eyes with tears, and sent him to his parentless home and bed to weep himself asleep!— There was poetry in that child's soul.
He was a Peasant, whose long life had been
Of toil and labour one unvaried scene.
He fought no battles, save with Want. His name
No splendour had, save that of honest fame.
And when he died, no stone arose to tell
Where, after all his ills, he sleeps so well.
To me—who missed him longest, mourned him most—
Even to me, that Old Man's grave is lost,
As much is lost to all that would explore,
As His, who died a thousand years before.
Both equal now—no vestige to evince
Where lies the Peasant, where was laid the Prince!
| The Poetical Works of Robert Story | |