University of Virginia Library

previous section Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander
next section
378

THE VALLEY OF THE SHADOW OF DEATH.

EUTHANASIA.

I. The Parting.

I go—the night-lamp flickers
In crystal socket deep,
As throbbing to the murmurs
Of thy short, restless sleep.
On thy pale brow the shadows
Of the closed curtains fall,
I watch the long dark figures
They cast on the cold wall.
And I can see thee heaving
The long white counterpane,—
When shall I keep the night-watch
By thy sick couch again?
I go—the cold bright morning
Breaks up in the grey sky,
On wood, and stream, and valley,
And those green hills that lie
All to the blue sea looking;
And through the breaking dark
I hear the pigeon cooing,
The first song of the lark.
379

O time, O youth, O gladness,
How swiftly have ye sped
Since we have watched the sunsets
From yon green mountain head!
Where is the step that bounded
So lightly from the ground,
The ring of that sweet laughter
That hath no fellow sound;
The large dark eye, all radiant
With glad and glorious thought?
O suffering, O sorrow,
How surely have ye wrought!
Now wasted form, and languor,
And lowly-breathed word,
And pain, and unrest weary,
And pale lips roughly stirr'd.
Hush, false and vain repining,
Nor drop hot tears of mine!
Doth man not cut the diamond
That it may brighter shine?
Do we not cast the fine gold
Into the cleansing fire?
Is not the child most cherish'd
Still chasten'd of its sire?
380

And saints wear crowns of glory
Through Heaven's eternal years,
With brightest rays around them—
All framed from earthly tears.
Hush! there are unseen watchers
Round the blest sufferer now,
And angel-hands, all gently,
Smooth down her pale high brow!
Hush! He is here in presence
Who knew all pain and care,
Nor ever layeth on His own
A cross they cannot bear!
Hush! for a dear hand beckons
Her soul to the bright shore,
Like Summer hasting after
The young Spring gone before!
I go—O parting sorrow,
O anguish of vain tears,
Why will ye mock me—bringing
The shades of our past years?
Twin spirit to my spirit,
When thou hast left my side
What other love shall comfort?
What other voice shall guide?
381

Hush! in our high communion
There is no broken link,
And lights gleam through the shadows
On the dark river's brink!
One hope, one faith, one heaven;
These years how fast they speed;
There is no endless parting,
No, never, in our creed.

II. The Last Communion.

I may not chafe thy weary temple,
I may not kiss thy dear pale face;
But spirit answereth to spirit,
And loving thought o'erleapeth space.
And thus within thy far sick-chamber
Mine heart communion holds with thine,
I see the kneeling kindred gather,
The broken bread, the hallow'd wine.
Hush, heaving sigh! Hush, murmur'd whisper!
Swell forth, ye words of love and dread!
“Take, eat, His life for you was given;
Drink ye; His blood for you was shed!”
382

Dim grows thy dark eye, kneeling mother,
There's anguish on thy bended brow;
Ay, weep, there come no second flowers
When Autumn strips the laden bough.
O broken spirit, meek-eyed creature,
Well may thy brimming eyes run o'er,
Since yet a darker drop may mingle
Within the cup so full before!
And thou, too, honour'd one and cherish'd,
Most happy wife and mother blest,
There comes a cloud o'er thy pure heaven
Which not the brightness of the rest,
Which not even his dear love who kneeleth
Close at thy side can banish quite;
For stars that have an equal lustre
Yet shine not with each other's light.
Come, gentle nurse, come, fair young sisters,
Draw closer still the narrowing chain,
Another golden link must sever,
Ye cannot commune thus again.
Once more, once more—death's deepening shadow
Broods o'er our little field of light,
Ere yet the heavy cloud is scatter'd
That wrapp'd our fairest from our sight,
383

Whom, as we linger by thy pillow,
Dear saint, in look, in smile, in tone,
We trace again, like skies reflecting
The sunlight when the sun is gone.
Still swells the Eucharistic measure,
The feast of love and life is o'er,
The angels joining, and archangels,
And saints who rest and sin no more.
Ah! not at Christ's own altar kneeling,
Our hearts should thrill, our eyes grow dim,
As though we had not known His presence,
And were not ever one in Him.
The dead—they are the truly living,
They live to God, to love, to us;
Why should the prescience of brief parting
Sadden the Christian spirit thus?
Nay, gently lay her on His bosom,—
Nay, gladly give her to His care,
Lest we forget in our own sorrow
How bright the crown His ransom'd wear.
384

III The Child in the Sick Room.

The glorious sun sinks slowly o'er
The purple ocean broad and even,
While, pale and pure, one little star
Rides up the eastern heaven.
The sunset hues of coming death
Have touch'd her cheek, and lit her eye;
The mother hath borne in her babe
To greet her ere she die.
With solemn look, and passive arms,
That stretch not now for love's embrace,
He looketh long and earnestly
On that sweet, holy face,
As if the soul, untainted yet,
And fresh from the Redeemer's touch,
New-washed in His own blood, who loves
His little ones so much,
With that bright spirit purified,
In suffering faithful to the end,
Held some mysterious communing
We could not comprehend.
385

As if to him unveil'd had been
Angelic forms and mysteries,
And awfully the parting soul
Look'd through her bright dark eyes.
Gaze on, the sunlight lingers yet—
The brow is there, with genius fraught,
The parted lips that pour'd so well
The music of her thought.
The brow all calm, the face all fair,
The eye all brilliant as of yore,
Each line by beauty so refined,
It could refine no more.
Gaze on—and Oh, as Eastern skies
Glow when the western heaven is bright,
Perchance thy soul may catch a gleam
From yonder fading light!
Because her lips for thee have vow'd,
Have pray'd for thee in hours of pain,
It cannot be, thou precious child,
Those prayers shall prove in vain.
But they will bring a blessing back,
As ofttimes 'neath the summer moon
The dewy mists that heavenward rise
Fall down in showers at noon.
386

And thou wilt be a holy saint,
Christ's soldier true in fights to come,
Wilt bear His cross as patiently,
And go as gladly home.
Gaze on, gaze on, some scenes there are
Too fair to ruffle with a sigh,
So let us learn of childish awe,
And wait in silence by!

IV. The Anniversary.—To E. G. H.

I know thou art awake to-night—
Thy tears are flowing fast,
Keeping our Saint's nativity
And dreaming of the past.
Thou weepest for the calm sweet smile
That ne'er again can charm,
For the dear head that, hour by hour,
Droop'd meekly on thine arm;
For the young lip where wisdom hung—
The honey on the rose;
For the high spirit calm'd and bow'd—
Faith's beautiful repose.
387

Ah! which of us that watch'd that tide
Of ebbing life depart,
Can hear its echoing surge to-night,
Nor tears unbidden start?
But tears so blended as they rise,
Of mingled joy and woe;
Like sourceless streams, we cannot tell
What fountain bids them flow.
That gush of sorrow—could she rest
Again upon thy side,
Uplooking with those patient eyes,
Perchance she would not chide.
But couldst thou see her whom thy care
So tended, worn and faint,
Clothed with the beauty of the blest,
The glory of the Saint—
That beauty of the spirit-land
Beyond our brightest dream—
Sure in thy soul the tide of joy
Would drown that darker stream.
And varying thought in gentle strife
Would all thy soul employ,
Of holy human tenderness
With earnest Christian joy.
388

So keep we watch to-night, my love,
And ever, at His feet
Who bade His angel at this hour
Steal on her slumber sweet;
And suffer'd not his ruffling wing
To break upon her ear,
But will'd that she should never know
Death's agony and fear.
O Christ, our stay, our strength, as hers,
Make, too, our dying bed,
'Tis but in presence of Thy love
We dare recall the dead!

V. The Place of Remembrance.

Where wouldst thou think of her? Where the young flowers
Spring through the turf where so often she lay,
Wearily watching the long summer hours,
Last of her lifetime, fleet slowly away?
There by the garden-wall, cover'd with roses,
Where, in the shelter, she linger'd so late,
Under the tree where the shadow reposes,
Over the spot where at noontime she sate?
389

Down the green walk where you drew her so slowly,
Patient and sweet in her helpless decay,
In her own chamber, the haunted and holy,
There wouldst thou dream of thy darling to-day?
Where wouldst thou think of her, darkling and dreary?
In the lone room where her spirit took flight,
Passing away, as a child that is weary
Turns to its cradle, nor wishes Good-night?
Where, like a wild dream, thy heart still remembers
The lingering smile on the motionless clay—
A flame that lives on in the light of its embers—
There wouldst thou dream of thy darling to-day?
Not in the greenwood glade—hearts need not borrow
Helps from dead nature to teach them to weep,
Not in that lonely room;—why should thy sorrow
Brood o'er her, silent and shrouded in sleep?
Go to the altar, where, morning and even,
The low voice has mingled, the bright head bow'd down,
Pouring her heart out in commune with Heaven,
Taking His cross up who gave her the crown.
Everywhere, everywhere holdeth communion,
Loving and cheering, her spirit with thine,
But in a holier, happier union,
Meet you with praises to-night at the shrine.
390

Then in the vale, when the waters are swelling,
Go where the desolate bird finds a nest,
Go to His holy and beautiful dwelling,
The courts of the Lord, where she dwelt and was blest.
Where the Church mingles her happy departed,
Victors gone home with the strugglers who stay,
Bringing forth balm for the desolate-hearted,—
There shouldst thou dream of thy darling to-day!

VI. Recollections.—To F. L.

I have been dwelling on enchanted ground,
Looking on thee, and dreaming of the past;
A spell of shrouded faces and lost sound
Thou hast around me cast.
Sorrow and joy, thought within thought enshrined,
Childhood and youth I have lived o'er again,
As one chance note unlinketh to the mind
The whole of a sweet strain.
Thus, with the truest love my heart has known,
Thy kindred form so dearly blended seems,
Thine accents have an echo of the tone
That haunts me in my dreams.
391

A thousand thrilling thoughts thou bring'st to me
Of our old days of happiness on earth;
I tremble at thy smile, thy laughter free,
Thy little words of mirth.
And I have mused until I seem'd to stray,
With thee and others, down a twilight glade,
Where sweet pale faces gleam'd upon our way,
And silver voices pray'd.
Shadows, and smiles, and gifted words were there,
It was the dream-land of our by-gone hours,
Just on the verge methought grew fresh and fair,
Two rathe and sunny flowers.
Pure balmy germs they grew within their shells,
Two cherish'd things, love-tended night and day,
With blue eyes peeping from their silver bells,
And breath as sweet as May.
There was a spirit with us in the grove—
I saw her linger where the first flower grew,
Breathe o'er it gently words of hope and love,
And leave it bathed in dew.
Now from thy presence, and its soothing power,
From voice, and look, and day-dream of the heart,
From balmy breath of childhood's opening flower,
Dear one, I must depart.
392

Go thou unto thy gleeful nursery,
Where voices mingle soft, and bright eyes gleam,
And when thy fair-hair'd children climb thy knee,
Read thou my parting dream.

ADDED FOR C. L.

He said he was forgotten in the strain,
When we roam'd through that love-enchanted spot,
As if there could be, of thy joy or pain,
A dream where he was not.
As if her sainted lips had ever pray'd,
Or her eyes fill'd for thee in thankfulness,
Nor blest his love true-hearted who had made
Her darling's happiness.
In every swelling chord are many notes
So closely blended, they seem all the same,
As, high and far, the glorious measure floats,—
We do not ask their name.

VII. Lines.

The stars sink one by one from sight,
No trace of them we find;
They vanish from the brow of night,
And none is left behind
Alone,
And none is left behind.
393

The sun goes to his ocean-bed,
In all his rays enshrined,
He wraps them round his crimson head,
And leaveth none behind
To mourn,
And leaveth none behind.
The beautiful and gifted dead,
The noblest of our kind,
Have cast their work aside and fled,
And we are left behind
Alone,
And we are left behind.
The dear old friends of early time,
Hearts round our hearts entwined,
Have faded from us in their prime,
And we are left behind
To mourn,
And we are left behind.
Pale stars, red sun, ye come again,
For whom no heart has pined,
We call our darlings back in vain,
Still are we left behind
Alone,
Still are we left behind.
394

Oh, dear ones, teach us so to run
Our race, in sun and wind,
That we may win where ye have won,
Though we be left behind
Awhile,
Though we be left behind!

VIII. The Last Evening.

Linger a moment ere 'tis o'er—
This last of our sweet evening hours.
As wanderers, leaving some fair shore,
Might pause to snatch a few bright flowers,
Which on their beating hearts they lay,
Memorials of that sunny clime;
Dear friends, shall we not bear away
Thoughts of this happy time?
Have we no flowers of memory
Close at our hearts to treasure fair,
Perchance to wither as they lie,
But sometimes still to scent our air?
Bright thoughts of love and joy to come,
In hours of toil and weariness,
And bring us, in each distant home,
Gleams of this happiness.
395

Shall we not dream when twilight shades,
Drop o'er the dark earth's quiet face,
How soft they touch'd the greenwood glade
Around our happy trysting place,
How blithely heart with heart did blend,
How gentle was our sportive strife,
Sisters and kin, each chosen friend,
Dear brother, and young wife?
Will there not come, when vespers chime,
And one of all the band shall hear
An echo from our service-time,
Deep thrilling to each heart and ear?
The spirits, by one impulse stirr'd,
Swelling the church's even-song,
The voice that falter'd o'er her word
So solemn, deep, and strong.
Ah! were we then in truth alone?
Had not each loving heart a dream,—
A glorious vision of its own,
That all too bright for words did seem,—
Whereat the tear unbidden springs;
And yet it has no shade of gloom;
As if two angels waved their wings
Across the quiet room?
Friends, gentle friends, the world is wide,
And few the scatter'd sweets we find,
396

We would not cast such flowers aside,
Though we must leave the root behind.
Then pause awhile on this last night,
And linger o'er our parting strain,
This commune sweet, this converse light,
When will they come again?

IX. The Chapel.
[_]

To E. C. L. on occasion of a Chapel being pulled down to build a Church on the site.

Let none rebuke our sorrow, vainly swelling,
Nor say we sin to taste, dishonour art,
Because the bareness of this poor low dwelling
Had grown entwined about our heart.
Because no show of cluster'd arches bending,
Nor slender shaft, nor storied window clear,
Nor fretted roof, on pillars proud ascending,
Can give the charm that linger'd here.
For what is taste, but the heart's earnest striving
After the beautiful in form and thought,
From the pure past a nicer sense deriving,
And ever by fair Nature taught;
397

A strong creative instinct, making real
Dreams framed from earth, or drawn down from above?
These barren walls could give one bright ideal,
And the heart's beautiful is love.
Here, where no thrill of rapturous emotion,
From impulse wrought by outward cause, might stir;
Only His shrine, who claim'd our first devotion,
And that calm, peaceful thought of her.
This was the casket where our hearts embalm'd her,
A reliquary fitting for a saint,
Here, where His love had met, His mercy calm'd her
When her poor human heart did faint.
True, we have other records; there are places
Rich with the fragrance of her hours most bright,
When, full of gladness, look'd into our faces
Those dark eyes, dancing in soft light.
There is the room where her sick presence lingers,
The couch whereon she lay, the book she read,
The last words traced by her weak, weary fingers;
But these are relics of the dead.
398

These tell us of the ear that could not hear us
In our worst anguish, of the close-seal'd eyes;
Here was the spiritual presence near us
Of the saved soul that never dies.
Still on her place, when a dim ray fell slanting,
There was a sound, known to our hearts alone,
Of angels' wings; still with the choir's low chanting
Mingled her gentle undertone.
So shall it be no more,—a crimson splendour
Shall break that wandering sunbeam's silver line,
And bid it fall in tinted radiance tender
On the pure pavement by the shrine.
Down the long nave, the deep, full organ pealing,
A hundred echoes, lingering, shall draw
From roof, and niche, and sculptured angel kneeling
In the fair she never saw.
Why are our hearts fill'd with so many yearnings
And adverse claims—that each to other call—
Admiring thought, and zeal, and inward burnings,
And this deep, mournful love through all?
We would not check the work of your adoring;
We love when art, and wealth, and fervour meet,
Their gifts most bright, most beautiful outpouring,
Sweet ointment for our Master's feet.
399

Still let us grieve—even as a mother weepeth
For some poor sickly child, in mercy ta'en;
Deep in her heart his little spot she keepeth,
But wishes him not back again.
And if there be who meet us with upbraiding,
Call back the lost loves of your early years,
The deep, sad thoughts that ask no outward aiding,
And leave us our few silent tears.
previous section Poems by Cecil Frances Alexander
next section