Carmina crucis :: :: University of Virginia Library

None knoweth of thy grave;
What wert thou? kind and young,
Tender, and true, and brave;
Yea, all that hath been sung
In poet's song, or told
In story, sweet and old,
Was thine; an aspect fair,
A heart to love and dare,
An arm to guard and save,
A soul for high emprise;
And still thine ardent eyes
Woo'd life unto thy breast,
And found it fair, caress'd
For all it promised, blest
By thee for all it gave.

Yet on thy life, from day
To day, as on the child
Outstretch'd the Prophet lay;
Pain lay outstretch'd, and prest
Upon thy brain, heart, breast,
Until thine anguish wild
And weary, changed and sank
To silent spaces blank;
And love, hope, joy, repress'd,
Seem'd as by harsh decree
The aspect weird to take
Of flowers their thirst that slake
At desert springs, and break
In hues of mockery.

Life was to thee a shroud;
Each day that o'er thee sped
Heap'd ashes on thy head,
And through the tumult loud,
'Twixt sense and spirit, Pain
Wove its thick spells, and round
Thy silent life-springs bound
And wrapt its fine-wrought chain;

So didst thou sit and hear,
Afar, the bird sing clear,
And see the flower unfold
In the warm noon-tide gold;
Love sued and pleasure sang,
And like a clarion, pride
With full, clear summons rang
Upon the air—all died.

None knoweth of thy grave;
Thy life and heart in twain
Were broken; even so,
How should the passer know
Their record sad and vain?
Fling in the dust, and there
Let fall with it Life's fair,
Fond presage unfulfill'd;
Fling eager hope unstill'd,
And love, that burning low,
Burn'd unconsuming here;
What need of flower or tear
To mark this heaving sod?—
The spot is mark'd by God!