 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
280
GRAVE-CHUSING.
Oh! Father, let me buried be
In yon' sweet churchyard nook,
Beneath the shadowy, old yewtree,
Hardby that pleasant brook;
In yon' sweet churchyard nook,
Beneath the shadowy, old yewtree,
Hardby that pleasant brook;
There lay me where, a child, I played,
For something seems to bless
The spot, there lay me, 'neath the shade
Of bygone happiness!
For something seems to bless
The spot, there lay me, 'neath the shade
Of bygone happiness!
And let my grave be near the stream,
As by the side of one,
I love, so shall I, though I dream,
Have something dear, when gone!
As by the side of one,
I love, so shall I, though I dream,
Have something dear, when gone!
Its voice, though I shall hear it not,
Makes music very meet
For that same calm and quiet spot,
The injured's last retreat.
Makes music very meet
For that same calm and quiet spot,
The injured's last retreat.
It has enough of sadness so
To be my funeral knell,
But not so sad to seem as though
Death's voice, like yon' sad bell!
To be my funeral knell,
But not so sad to seem as though
Death's voice, like yon' sad bell!
It is a song of early days:
Snatches of happy times
Still meet my ear, as on it plays,
But too like jangled chimes.
Snatches of happy times
Still meet my ear, as on it plays,
But too like jangled chimes.
It hath not broken faith with me,
Its voice is as at first,
It has not wrung my heart, once free
As it, no ties has burst.
Its voice is as at first,
It has not wrung my heart, once free
As it, no ties has burst.
281
And let there be no stone above,
To tell its idle tale,
But freshest turf with flow'rets wove,
And pérfuming the gale.
To tell its idle tale,
But freshest turf with flow'rets wove,
And pérfuming the gale.
For I should wish no curious eye
To know who I have been,
The few who love me, easily
Will find the place I ween!
To know who I have been,
The few who love me, easily
Will find the place I ween!
Let nought but flowers mark the spot,
Its only ornament,
Emblems of mortal Man's frail lot,
Of one as innocent!
Its only ornament,
Emblems of mortal Man's frail lot,
Of one as innocent!
As innocent as themselves are,
And, like them, trodden 'neath
The foot of one who would not spare,
But took the part of Death!
And, like them, trodden 'neath
The foot of one who would not spare,
But took the part of Death!
Who, through the love I bore him, dealt
The stroke that lays me low,
Who, from the very love I felt,
Made my life's bitter flow.
The stroke that lays me low,
Who, from the very love I felt,
Made my life's bitter flow.
But I forgive him, may he live
To think of me once more,
And to my injured memory give
What, living, I deplore!
To think of me once more,
And to my injured memory give
What, living, I deplore!
And let there be no ruder sounds
Than greet the dawning day,
The voice of that sweet stream, which bounds
So merry on its way.
Than greet the dawning day,
The voice of that sweet stream, which bounds
So merry on its way.
282
Let children sport above my grave,
And pluck the flowers there,
Enjoying, as I myself have,
Those hours so fresh and fair:
And pluck the flowers there,
Enjoying, as I myself have,
Those hours so fresh and fair:
Let them not think on whom they tread,
The silence that's below,
But laugh, as though there were no dead,
And life were ever so!
The silence that's below,
But laugh, as though there were no dead,
And life were ever so!
These trembling-voicëd words had brought
A tear into her eye,
For still it is a bitter thought,
So very young to die.
A tear into her eye,
For still it is a bitter thought,
So very young to die.
Then from her father's breast she raised,
Feebly, her sinking head,
One moment in his face she gazed,
Yet not one word she said.
Feebly, her sinking head,
One moment in his face she gazed,
Yet not one word she said.
There was a something at her heart,
That could not uttered be,
She pressed his hand, as those who part
For an eternity.
That could not uttered be,
She pressed his hand, as those who part
For an eternity.
She strove to speak again—again
His hand she harder prest,
Then on that bosom, she had lay'n
So oft on, sank to rest.
His hand she harder prest,
Then on that bosom, she had lay'n
So oft on, sank to rest.
She gasped, one little word to say,
One word of all we waste,
But, ere 'twas shaped, her lips were clay,
A corpse those arms embraced!
One word of all we waste,
But, ere 'twas shaped, her lips were clay,
A corpse those arms embraced!
283
He answered not, there came no tear,
He clasped her to his breast,
He listened for a while to hear
Her heart, but 'twas at rest!
He clasped her to his breast,
He listened for a while to hear
Her heart, but 'twas at rest!
That plaything in Time's hands, which he
Had, like a ball, tossed to
And fro, lay still—a mysterie
Now as when Death was new!
Had, like a ball, tossed to
And fro, lay still—a mysterie
Now as when Death was new!
And, when I pass'd again that way,
The birds were singing there,
As though there had been no such day,
Nor Man e'er felt despair.
The birds were singing there,
As though there had been no such day,
Nor Man e'er felt despair.
I wandered through the churchyard nook,
The stream was flowing on,
All things wore just the selfsame look,
Save one small spot alone.
The stream was flowing on,
All things wore just the selfsame look,
Save one small spot alone.
A little mound of turf was there,
Which was not there before,
No other object told me where
Slept she who was no more!
Which was not there before,
No other object told me where
Slept she who was no more!
I sat me down beside her grave,
And, though a stranger, I
Wept tears, for such her tale did crave,
For our Humanity.
And, though a stranger, I
Wept tears, for such her tale did crave,
For our Humanity.
I paid the debt of Nature there,
Which to our kind we owe,
In our humanity who share,
One heart in all below.
Which to our kind we owe,
In our humanity who share,
One heart in all below.
284
The old yew tree quaint shadows threw
Upon that humble sod,
And on its breast the flowers grew,
Emblems of trust in God.
Upon that humble sod,
And on its breast the flowers grew,
Emblems of trust in God.
The daisy had shot up, meanwhile,
As though 'twere common mould,
And, in its beauty, seemed to smile
At all that's dead and cold!
As though 'twere common mould,
And, in its beauty, seemed to smile
At all that's dead and cold!
The grass was fresh and fair, as if
Such things could never be,
I plucked a flower, that drew its life
From mould that once was she!
Such things could never be,
I plucked a flower, that drew its life
From mould that once was she!
And thus we pass away, and leave
No void in the vast chain
Of Being, and scarce one will grieve
Or think of us again.
No void in the vast chain
Of Being, and scarce one will grieve
Or think of us again.
Our name is cast upon the winds,
Our memory is gone,
And all the curious searcher finds
At best is a gravestone.
Our memory is gone,
And all the curious searcher finds
At best is a gravestone.
Ask of this many-centuried tree,
Who sleeps beneath his shade?
Will Nature, think'st thou, answer thee?
She cares not for the dead!
Who sleeps beneath his shade?
Will Nature, think'st thou, answer thee?
She cares not for the dead!
She twines her flowers round her brow,
And sings her songs again,
A thousand years from hence, as now,
Though men die and complain!
And sings her songs again,
A thousand years from hence, as now,
Though men die and complain!
285
She cometh with the flowers of spring,
And hides Earth's old, sad graves,
And generations new doth bring,
Waves following still on waves!
And hides Earth's old, sad graves,
And generations new doth bring,
Waves following still on waves!
And so she dances onward still,
Forgetful of the Past,
To music of the bird and rill,
The same from first to last!
Forgetful of the Past,
To music of the bird and rill,
The same from first to last!
While she, who sleeps beneath that sod,
Is as the flower fair,
A thousand years ago downtrod,
Gone, no one can say where!
Is as the flower fair,
A thousand years ago downtrod,
Gone, no one can say where!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |