The Poetry of Real Life A New Edition, Much Enlarged and Improved. By Henry Ellison |
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THE GRAVE-HAUNTER. |
 | The Poetry of Real Life |  |
THE GRAVE-HAUNTER.
Why sitt'st thou on that old gravestone,
Thou gray-haired Man of many years?
Speaks it, like thee, of things by-gone,
Why melt thy dim, old eyes to tears?
Thou gray-haired Man of many years?
Speaks it, like thee, of things by-gone,
Why melt thy dim, old eyes to tears?
Thereat the old man tremblingly
Raised up his time-bowed face of pain,
First cast a wistful glance at me,
Then bent it on the stone again.
Raised up his time-bowed face of pain,
First cast a wistful glance at me,
Then bent it on the stone again.
Oh 'twas a sad, sad sight, to see
That poor, old man, forlorn and lone,
Like a storm-scathed and leafless tree,
With all its autumn fruitage strown.
That poor, old man, forlorn and lone,
Like a storm-scathed and leafless tree,
With all its autumn fruitage strown.
Of the church-yard he seemed a part,
So silent, old, so still and grey,
Sitting like Time, without his dart,
And mourning over life's decay.
So silent, old, so still and grey,
Sitting like Time, without his dart,
And mourning over life's decay.
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Then traced he, with Grief's finger slow,
A name he clear'd still as he sate,
From rank, oblivious weeds, that grow
Till all we love be out of date.
A name he clear'd still as he sate,
From rank, oblivious weeds, that grow
Till all we love be out of date.
Each letter seemed to stab his heart,
And, as he cleared the moss away,
Ever to pierce him, like the dart
Of Death, in ambuscade who lay.
And, as he cleared the moss away,
Ever to pierce him, like the dart
Of Death, in ambuscade who lay.
When the old man had traced the name,
He gazed into my face, and said,
—She was the last of all—they came
Like spring-flowers, and are now all dead!
He gazed into my face, and said,
—She was the last of all—they came
Like spring-flowers, and are now all dead!
And yet I live, though old and gray,
Mourning for those should cherish me.
Thereat he bent him down, and lay
Lost in his own deep agony.
Mourning for those should cherish me.
Thereat he bent him down, and lay
Lost in his own deep agony.
His bosom heaved with piteous moan,
His white hair waved upon the wind,
He lay like Grief, not carved in stone,
But figured in more moving kind.
His white hair waved upon the wind,
He lay like Grief, not carved in stone,
But figured in more moving kind.
Such tears are holy, shed by one
Who suffers thus, chastised by Heaven,
Swifter than prayers their way is won,
And pardon for their sake is given.
Who suffers thus, chastised by Heaven,
Swifter than prayers their way is won,
And pardon for their sake is given.
And, when those natural drops were shed,
The old man rose from off the stone,
And then his tottering steps I led
Down the path which his walk had grown.
The old man rose from off the stone,
And then his tottering steps I led
Down the path which his walk had grown.
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And, when we reached the churchyard gate,
He turned, with lingering step, once more,
For the old clock had chimed the date
Of time, recalling things of yore.
He turned, with lingering step, once more,
For the old clock had chimed the date
Of time, recalling things of yore.
Thereon he heaved a deep-drawn sigh,
And passed his hand athwart his face,
“Heaven's will be done, he said, for I
Am a poor sinner, needing grace!”
And passed his hand athwart his face,
“Heaven's will be done, he said, for I
Am a poor sinner, needing grace!”
That clock is now as is the voice
Of an old friend, who, every while,
Bidding me soberly rejoice,
Doth still another hour beguile.
Of an old friend, who, every while,
Bidding me soberly rejoice,
Doth still another hour beguile.
Tells me another hour is flown,
Another weary hour of all
The many I've been left alone,
In solitude, as 'twere a pall.
Another weary hour of all
The many I've been left alone,
In solitude, as 'twere a pall.
Then, as we left the church behind,
And objects varied as we moved,
The scene induced a calmer mind,
The old man talked of those he loved.
And objects varied as we moved,
The scene induced a calmer mind,
The old man talked of those he loved.
And, as he talked, his grief grew less,
Words gave it wings, and made it light,
And sorrow half grew happiness,
In utterance taking such delight!
Words gave it wings, and made it light,
And sorrow half grew happiness,
In utterance taking such delight!
I was a happy Man, he said,
The father of five goodly boys,
And one sweet girl, who in my need
A ministering angel was;
The father of five goodly boys,
And one sweet girl, who in my need
A ministering angel was;
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My wife died first, and, one by one,
My goodly boys were torn away,
Once scathed the stem, the fruit thereon
Sank with it, ere my head was grey.
My goodly boys were torn away,
Once scathed the stem, the fruit thereon
Sank with it, ere my head was grey.
Yet still my dear, dear girl was left;
In us the spirits of the rest
Seem'd blent in one, and, though bereft,
I felt I was not all unblest.
In us the spirits of the rest
Seem'd blent in one, and, though bereft,
I felt I was not all unblest.
But Heaven was pleased still more to try
My fortitude, and, lest I should
Forget that nobler bourne, the sky,
Chastised me unto mine own good.
My fortitude, and, lest I should
Forget that nobler bourne, the sky,
Chastised me unto mine own good.
There is a fitter place of meeting
For spirits lost on earth to view,
To teach me what I was forgetting,
My girl was soon snatched from me too.
For spirits lost on earth to view,
To teach me what I was forgetting,
My girl was soon snatched from me too.
Oh stranger, hast thou ever known
What 'tis to be alone on earth?
Having been loved? to be alone
Where many voices cheered the hearth?
What 'tis to be alone on earth?
Having been loved? to be alone
Where many voices cheered the hearth?
My girl, she had such winning ways,
I half forgot in her the rest,
She seemed them almost to replace,
And their united love possessed.
I half forgot in her the rest,
She seemed them almost to replace,
And their united love possessed.
Oh had you heard her soft-toned voice,
Or seen her, at my bedroom door,
With tiptoe caution, lest the noise
Should rouse me, watch an hour or more.
Or seen her, at my bedroom door,
With tiptoe caution, lest the noise
Should rouse me, watch an hour or more.
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And, if she saw me hide my tears,
She'd kiss me, then point to the skies,
She had a sense beyond her years,
For love perfects the faculties!
She'd kiss me, then point to the skies,
She had a sense beyond her years,
For love perfects the faculties!
Yes, he doth give a novel sense
Unto the eye and to the ear,
And a divine intelligence
Unto the heart, none else comes near.
Unto the eye and to the ear,
And a divine intelligence
Unto the heart, none else comes near.
Then would she read the sacred page,
On some calm, quiet Sabbath-eve,
Likest an angel sent to 'suage,
With words of promise, those who grieve.
On some calm, quiet Sabbath-eve,
Likest an angel sent to 'suage,
With words of promise, those who grieve.
But she is in her grave, and I
Am here, a lone old man, of years
And sorrows full; but misery
Shall turn to smiles, though born in tears!
Am here, a lone old man, of years
And sorrows full; but misery
Shall turn to smiles, though born in tears!
The old man's simple tale was done:
And we had reached his cottage door,
Where a wild eglantine had spun
Its thriftless tendrils, pruned no more.
And we had reached his cottage door,
Where a wild eglantine had spun
Its thriftless tendrils, pruned no more.
The rose had rambled from its stay,
And trailed its beauty on the ground,
As though dumb Nature would, that way,
Show sympàthy mute, but profound!
And trailed its beauty on the ground,
As though dumb Nature would, that way,
Show sympàthy mute, but profound!
And she doth suffer too with Man,
And falleth to neglect with him,
And all her charms Elysian,
Under a cloud, as 't were, grow dim!
And falleth to neglect with him,
And all her charms Elysian,
Under a cloud, as 't were, grow dim!
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For of herself and works Man is
The crown and finish still,
And when he happiness doth miss,
She doth but half her end fulfil!
The crown and finish still,
And when he happiness doth miss,
She doth but half her end fulfil!
The old Man looked, and shook his head,
His grey hairs stirrëd in the wind,
“It used not to be so,” he said,
“Time has left naught to mourn behind.”
His grey hairs stirrëd in the wind,
“It used not to be so,” he said,
“Time has left naught to mourn behind.”
They are but emblems of what's gone,
Of what has faded from the earth:
Of all that's noble, no! not one
But has in Heaven a second birth.
Of what has faded from the earth:
Of all that's noble, no! not one
But has in Heaven a second birth.
That untwined eglantine is like
Affection fixed on worldly things,
Which but in earth its root doth strike,
The stay soon gone to which it clings.
Affection fixed on worldly things,
Which but in earth its root doth strike,
The stay soon gone to which it clings.
Yon' rose, there trailing on the ground,
Is but the Beauty which decays,
Not the eternal and profound,
The Beauty which the Spirit has!
Is but the Beauty which decays,
Not the eternal and profound,
The Beauty which the Spirit has!
And with these words the old man turned,
And, prophet-like, his features glowed,
A holier spirit through them burned,
And through the Man th' Immortal showed.
And, prophet-like, his features glowed,
A holier spirit through them burned,
And through the Man th' Immortal showed.
If of an old man's blessing thou
Disdainest not the humble gift,
'Tis thine, and, when this frame lies low,
Some thoughts of me thy soul may lift.
Disdainest not the humble gift,
'Tis thine, and, when this frame lies low,
Some thoughts of me thy soul may lift.
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Though baffled oft on this cold earth,
The love we bear our household hearts,
Hath its fulfilment, and imparts
E'en by its anguish higher worth.
The love we bear our household hearts,
Hath its fulfilment, and imparts
E'en by its anguish higher worth.
Better it is to suffer thus,
And love, though Love the cause may be,
Than to live unsolicitous,
None loving, and none loving thee.
And love, though Love the cause may be,
Than to live unsolicitous,
None loving, and none loving thee.
Else God had given not a heart,
But, in its stead, a stone, did He
Not mean His creatures to take part
In all the joys and griefs that be.
But, in its stead, a stone, did He
Not mean His creatures to take part
In all the joys and griefs that be.
The old man's blessing and his words
Sank through my heart, like fresh-fall'n dew,
And, as I turned away, the birds
Their strains seem'd blither to renew.
Sank through my heart, like fresh-fall'n dew,
And, as I turned away, the birds
Their strains seem'd blither to renew.
Oft have I passed the old man's cot
In after years and other mood,
And soothed my own with his sad lot,
And learnt in evil to know good.
In after years and other mood,
And soothed my own with his sad lot,
And learnt in evil to know good.
There is a wisdom which doth bow,
Meek wisdom, taught by sufferings,
That wound the heart, therein to sow
The seeds of future blessings.
Meek wisdom, taught by sufferings,
That wound the heart, therein to sow
The seeds of future blessings.
And there are tears, which those who weep
Make holy in God's sight, above
The vain lipworshippers, who keep
The letter, but from fear, not love.
Make holy in God's sight, above
The vain lipworshippers, who keep
The letter, but from fear, not love.
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Where love is not, there is no law,
A law unto himself He is:
Instead of law, fulfilling law,
And in fulfilling finds his bliss.
A law unto himself He is:
Instead of law, fulfilling law,
And in fulfilling finds his bliss.
There's wisdom in simplicity,
And dignity in lowliness,
And to be last is, still, to be
Great in our very littleness.
And dignity in lowliness,
And to be last is, still, to be
Great in our very littleness.
And joys there are, in misery,
That happiness has never known,
A service which is liberty,
And visions but to virtue shown.
That happiness has never known,
A service which is liberty,
And visions but to virtue shown.
Then let our eyes be dimmed with tears,
Our hearts be purified by pain,
Faith still can bear the weight of years,
And by these mortal losses gain!
Our hearts be purified by pain,
Faith still can bear the weight of years,
And by these mortal losses gain!
For, though her crown be one of thorns,
'Tis greater than the crowns of kings,
Triumphs, her griefs: glories, her scorns:
And martyrdoms her sufferings!
'Tis greater than the crowns of kings,
Triumphs, her griefs: glories, her scorns:
And martyrdoms her sufferings!
| The Poetry of Real Life | |