 | The Poetical Works of Robert Story |  |
116
The Dead stood by.
1830.
[_]
The “two youthful friends” in the following stanzas, were William Thompson, a fellow-reaper in the fields of Roddam, and John Smith, of Humbleton. The “lovely vision” was Jeanie Kennedy, of Reveley, on the Breamish.]
The Dead stood by my couch last night!
(The living of another sphere!)
And my raised spirit, at the sight,
Felt much of awe, but nought of fear;
For though, e'en in my dream, I knew
Immortal Forms bent o'er my bed,
They were so like themselves! the true—
The fair—the reverenced!—Could I dread?
(The living of another sphere!)
And my raised spirit, at the sight,
Felt much of awe, but nought of fear;
For though, e'en in my dream, I knew
Immortal Forms bent o'er my bed,
They were so like themselves! the true—
The fair—the reverenced!—Could I dread?
So like themselves! and yet they had
A look they wore not when alive—
It was not stern, it was not sad,
Though sternness seemed with grief to strive.
It was a mournful seriousness—
A pity grave—most like the air
Which, when compassion they express,
We deem an Angel's eyes may wear!
A look they wore not when alive—
It was not stern, it was not sad,
Though sternness seemed with grief to strive.
It was a mournful seriousness—
A pity grave—most like the air
Which, when compassion they express,
We deem an Angel's eyes may wear!
A tall old man stood next my face—
Well in his thin, dark, furrowed cheek,
And forehead mild, my soul could trace
The features loved in childhood weak.
I thought on the paternal cot—
The circle round its evening flame—
And my lips moved, but murmured not—
I could not speak my Father's name!
Well in his thin, dark, furrowed cheek,
And forehead mild, my soul could trace
The features loved in childhood weak.
117
The circle round its evening flame—
And my lips moved, but murmured not—
I could not speak my Father's name!
Two youthful Friends beside him stood,
Whom early death had snatched away;
The one—of those who, humbly good,
Seek the mild virtues to display.
He moved in no eccentric course,
Allured by Passion or by Pride;
He knew no vice, felt no remorse,
But meekly lived, and calmly died.
Whom early death had snatched away;
The one—of those who, humbly good,
Seek the mild virtues to display.
He moved in no eccentric course,
Allured by Passion or by Pride;
He knew no vice, felt no remorse,
But meekly lived, and calmly died.
The other—O how different He!
Him Genius cherished as a son;
Th' unfading wreath of Poesy
He looked on as already won.
Through untried regions plumed to range,
His Muse had just essayed to fly,
When he exchanged—a great exchange!—
Glory on earth, for Bliss on high.
Him Genius cherished as a son;
Th' unfading wreath of Poesy
He looked on as already won.
Through untried regions plumed to range,
His Muse had just essayed to fly,
When he exchanged—a great exchange!—
Glory on earth, for Bliss on high.
A once-loved Form stood next and last,
A lovely vision—pure—and still—
Whose living charms had all surpassed
That bloom by Breamish or by Till.
She seemed no fairer than of old,—
But then there was a fixedness
Of beauty on her cheek, that told
It never could be more—or less!
A lovely vision—pure—and still—
Whose living charms had all surpassed
That bloom by Breamish or by Till.
She seemed no fairer than of old,—
But then there was a fixedness
Of beauty on her cheek, that told
It never could be more—or less!
My very heart within me yearned
To see these visitants divine;
Nor was it long before I learned
Their spirits held discourse with mine!
There was no word, or turn of eye;
Upon my ear no music stole;
But yet there was communion high—
The silent talk of soul with soul!
To see these visitants divine;
Nor was it long before I learned
Their spirits held discourse with mine!
118
Upon my ear no music stole;
But yet there was communion high—
The silent talk of soul with soul!
My past career they marked with blame,
Its thoughtless faults, its deeper crimes;
They bade me quit the race of Fame,
And run for nobler prize than Time's.
“The fame,” they said, “by man bestowed,
Fills not the high, immortal soul;
The glorious wreath conferred by God,
Shall bloom—when Earth has ceased to roll!
Its thoughtless faults, its deeper crimes;
They bade me quit the race of Fame,
And run for nobler prize than Time's.
“The fame,” they said, “by man bestowed,
Fills not the high, immortal soul;
The glorious wreath conferred by God,
Shall bloom—when Earth has ceased to roll!
“Death is at hand—that throwing down
Of barriers which the soul confine—
When the pure heart shall gain a crown:
Why not that heavenly crown be thine?
By prayer—by prayer—unfile thy heart,
And join us in eternity!—
For O! retain this truth—Thou art,
And never canst thou cease to be!”
Of barriers which the soul confine—
When the pure heart shall gain a crown:
Why not that heavenly crown be thine?
By prayer—by prayer—unfile thy heart,
And join us in eternity!—
For O! retain this truth—Thou art,
And never canst thou cease to be!”
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