 | Carmina crucis |  |
106
BURIED, BUT NOT DEAD.
“What now dost thou bury
“So softly and still?
“Oh! this is the grave
“Of my own proud will.”
“I bid it sleep softly in Death's little room,
“And my hopes, too, I bury with it in the tomb.”
De la Motte Fouqué.
“So softly and still?
“Oh! this is the grave
“Of my own proud will.”
“I bid it sleep softly in Death's little room,
“And my hopes, too, I bury with it in the tomb.”
De la Motte Fouqué.
Betwixt the light of the rising sun,
And the light of the waning moon,
Along the grassy forest path,
Fair Knight, thou speedest soon!
A chill faint Dawn is on the sky,
And through the wood a breath
Runs fresh, yet cold as is the sigh
That comes 'twixt life and death.
And the light of the waning moon,
Along the grassy forest path,
Fair Knight, thou speedest soon!
A chill faint Dawn is on the sky,
And through the wood a breath
Runs fresh, yet cold as is the sigh
That comes 'twixt life and death.
The forest paths are green and lone,
The forest shade is deep,
The secrets on its stillness thrown
It knoweth well to keep;
And some will seek the forest glade,
A deadly strife to end;
And some there are will seek its shade,
To meet a gentle friend.
The forest shade is deep,
The secrets on its stillness thrown
It knoweth well to keep;
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A deadly strife to end;
And some there are will seek its shade,
To meet a gentle friend.
Yet on this brow I read no frown
Of foeman's vengeful ire,
And in this quiet eye cast down
No light of soft desire;
Not thus they look who meet by night
Beneath the blossom'd thorn,
And cry, when breaks the Eastern light,
“How quickly comes the morn!”
Of foeman's vengeful ire,
And in this quiet eye cast down
No light of soft desire;
Not thus they look who meet by night
Beneath the blossom'd thorn,
And cry, when breaks the Eastern light,
“How quickly comes the morn!”
A little bird upon the bough
Sang clear, a light breeze stirr'd
The thick, dark summer leaves, but now
I know not if he heard
The whisper of the summer leaves,
The carol of the bird.
Sang clear, a light breeze stirr'd
The thick, dark summer leaves, but now
I know not if he heard
The whisper of the summer leaves,
The carol of the bird.
A little brook beside his way
Ran chafing, chiding long;
I know not if he marked its play,
Or heard its ceaseless song;
At length he near'd a green, smooth place
Within the thickest shade,
A still, fair, solitary place,
For quiet spirits made.
Ran chafing, chiding long;
I know not if he marked its play,
Or heard its ceaseless song;
108
Within the thickest shade,
A still, fair, solitary place,
For quiet spirits made.
And in that solitary place
He knelt and pray'd to God,
I saw no mound beneath his knees,
No heaving of the sod:
Unstirr'd I saw the grasses lie,
Unstirr'd the daisies wave;
A pleasant spot, and yet I knew
He knelt upon a grave.
He knelt and pray'd to God,
I saw no mound beneath his knees,
No heaving of the sod:
Unstirr'd I saw the grasses lie,
Unstirr'd the daisies wave;
A pleasant spot, and yet I knew
He knelt upon a grave.
He lifted up his steel-clad hands,
“I bring to Thee the first,
I bring to Thee,” he said, “the last
Fond hope that I have nursed;
The wish that strengthen'd with my strength,
And with my being grew;
And the last sweet, silent dream that crept
Close to my heart, and drew
So soft a breath that if it slept
Or woke, I scarcely knew.
On earth, in Heaven, whom have I now
But thee,—in death, in life?
Oh, bind my spirit with the vow
That makes an end of strife!
“I bring to Thee the first,
I bring to Thee,” he said, “the last
Fond hope that I have nursed;
The wish that strengthen'd with my strength,
And with my being grew;
And the last sweet, silent dream that crept
Close to my heart, and drew
So soft a breath that if it slept
Or woke, I scarcely knew.
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But thee,—in death, in life?
Oh, bind my spirit with the vow
That makes an end of strife!
“The Dead above their dead may wail,
The living live to Thee,
Oh, First and Last! Thou dost not fail
For Thou art strong; and we,
Thy little ones, are weak and frail,
And Thou, our Lord, art free,
And we with heavy bands are bound;
But now of bond or free
I reck not,—bitter turns to sweet,—
I see Thy hands, I see Thy feet;
My dearest Lord, I see
Thy wounded heart! Oh, be Thou found
For First and Last to me!”
The living live to Thee,
Oh, First and Last! Thou dost not fail
For Thou art strong; and we,
Thy little ones, are weak and frail,
And Thou, our Lord, art free,
And we with heavy bands are bound;
But now of bond or free
I reck not,—bitter turns to sweet,—
I see Thy hands, I see Thy feet;
My dearest Lord, I see
Thy wounded heart! Oh, be Thou found
For First and Last to me!”
He rose and went upon his way;
A moving to and fro
Was in the woods, as of a calm,
Strong wind that gathers slow:
No dew lay on the grassy dell,
The sky was cloudless-clear,
Yet from the clear, bright heavens there fell
A solitary tear.
A moving to and fro
Was in the woods, as of a calm,
Strong wind that gathers slow:
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The sky was cloudless-clear,
Yet from the clear, bright heavens there fell
A solitary tear.
And through the woven boughs—I saw
The glory of the sky
Look down,—I saw the forest flowers
In quiet bloom and die,—
I saw the lowly grasses bend,
I saw the daisies wave;
Oh! Jesus, loving to the end,
Thou knowest of that grave!
The glory of the sky
Look down,—I saw the forest flowers
In quiet bloom and die,—
I saw the lowly grasses bend,
I saw the daisies wave;
Oh! Jesus, loving to the end,
Thou knowest of that grave!
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