Poems by the late John Bethune With a sketch of the author's life, by his brother |
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HYMNS OF THE CHURCH-YARD—II. |
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 | Poems by the late John Bethune |  |
HYMNS OF THE CHURCH-YARD—II.
Again within thy precincts, Death,
With solemn step I tread,
To gaze upon the turf beneath,
Which hides th' unrecorded dead.
With solemn step I tread,
To gaze upon the turf beneath,
Which hides th' unrecorded dead.
I came not here to pry and pore
O'er monument or bust;
But with soft sadness to explore
The graves of those called “vulgar dust.”
O'er monument or bust;
But with soft sadness to explore
The graves of those called “vulgar dust.”
Each marble has its bard to praise,
And pour the ready tear;
But who, alas! will waste heir lays,
Or weep above the poor man's bier?
And pour the ready tear;
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Or weep above the poor man's bier?
Yet hearts as firm as ever beat,
And warm as ever burn'd,
And feelings pure as aught we meet,
Have been, without a stone, inurn'd.
And warm as ever burn'd,
And feelings pure as aught we meet,
Have been, without a stone, inurn'd.
And since no bard will deign to sing
Of names so little known,
Or tell their tales of suffering—
The humble task shall be my own.
Of names so little known,
Or tell their tales of suffering—
The humble task shall be my own.
Here lies a grave, which tear nor sigh
Hath ever fann'd or wet;
Yet never dust, from human eye,
Better deserved that unpaid debt.
Hath ever fann'd or wet;
Yet never dust, from human eye,
Better deserved that unpaid debt.
It is an orphan's place of rest,
Who found no rest below,
Till the cold sod her soft cheek press'd,
To terminate a scene of woe.
Who found no rest below,
Till the cold sod her soft cheek press'd,
To terminate a scene of woe.
Sad was the day her mother died—
Leaving that only child,
Who erst had been her staff and pride—
A stranger on life's thorny wild.
Leaving that only child,
Who erst had been her staff and pride—
A stranger on life's thorny wild.
She was a kind and duteous girl,
And, though her frame was weak,
Had toil'd and watch'd through pain and peril,
For her old bed-rid mother's sake.
And, though her frame was weak,
Had toil'd and watch'd through pain and peril,
For her old bed-rid mother's sake.
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But who could gaze upon that streak,
Like sunlight upon snow,
Which gently tinged her maiden cheek,
Or on her white and spotless brow,
Like sunlight upon snow,
Which gently tinged her maiden cheek,
Or on her white and spotless brow,
Or who upon her deep blue eye
Could for a moment look—
Nor read an early destiny,
Written in that mysterious book;
Could for a moment look—
Nor read an early destiny,
Written in that mysterious book;
Yet she had hours of happiness
When a fond mother's prayer,
And a fond mother's faint caress,
Had banish'd earthly care.
When a fond mother's prayer,
And a fond mother's faint caress,
Had banish'd earthly care.
But, ah! that friend—the last the best,
“By pain and sorrow worn,”
Took refuge in this place of rest,
And left her only child to mourn:
“By pain and sorrow worn,”
Took refuge in this place of rest,
And left her only child to mourn:
And from that day her swimming eye,
In languid beauty shone
On the deep azure of the sky,
Where one by one her friends had gone.
In languid beauty shone
On the deep azure of the sky,
Where one by one her friends had gone.
And still by yon low grave her tears
Of loneliness would gush;
While thoughts which swept o'er bygone years,
Crimson'd her cheek with rosy flush.
Of loneliness would gush;
While thoughts which swept o'er bygone years,
Crimson'd her cheek with rosy flush.
It was not health's bright hue that rose—
Too soon it pass'd away—
It was the hectic beam which glows
The beacon fire of slow decay.
Too soon it pass'd away—
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The beacon fire of slow decay.
Her's was a grief that pass'd not by—
A grief that murmur'd not;
It rose with the corrosive sigh,
Yet breath'd contentment with her lot.
A grief that murmur'd not;
It rose with the corrosive sigh,
Yet breath'd contentment with her lot.
And duly at the close of day,
She sought the silent shade—
In solitude to weep and pray,
And ponder on the lowly dead.
She sought the silent shade—
In solitude to weep and pray,
And ponder on the lowly dead.
And oft upon the breeze of eve,
She thought her mother's voice
Whisper'd, “My Mary, do not grieve:
God calls your spirit to rejoice.”
She thought her mother's voice
Whisper'd, “My Mary, do not grieve:
God calls your spirit to rejoice.”
And then a fresher, warmer gush
Of feeling, to her eye
Brought the big tears with quicker rush,
And an intenser sympathy.
Of feeling, to her eye
Brought the big tears with quicker rush,
And an intenser sympathy.
Patient as martyr, though so young,
Sickness and pain she suffer'd;
No murmuring word escaped her tongue,
And no complaint she ever utter'd.
Sickness and pain she suffer'd;
No murmuring word escaped her tongue,
And no complaint she ever utter'd.
Her eye had caught a glimpse of heaven—
Her Saviour from on high—
Had sent a sunbeam to enliven
Death's gloomy vale of mystery.
Her Saviour from on high—
Had sent a sunbeam to enliven
Death's gloomy vale of mystery.
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Poets have sung of beauty's bower,
And love-struck beauty sighing;
But they have felt its fullest power,
Who have beheld such beauty dying.
And love-struck beauty sighing;
But they have felt its fullest power,
Who have beheld such beauty dying.
The ruby lip's expiring red—
The pale but placid cheek,
Where the faint roses sweetly fade,
The onyx brow composed and meek.
The pale but placid cheek,
Where the faint roses sweetly fade,
The onyx brow composed and meek.
The softness of the seraph eyes,
Still dewy, but not wet;
And pure as heaven's blue bending skies—
Beauty like this we ne'er forget!
Still dewy, but not wet;
And pure as heaven's blue bending skies—
Beauty like this we ne'er forget!
And such adorn'd the orphan's face,
Who now lies slumb'ring here;
Whose eye was closed in death's embrace,
Without a single sigh or tear.
Who now lies slumb'ring here;
Whose eye was closed in death's embrace,
Without a single sigh or tear.
By stranger hands, her beauteous clay
Was to the dust consign'd;
No friend was there her name to say,
Or load with sighs the passing wind.
Was to the dust consign'd;
No friend was there her name to say,
Or load with sighs the passing wind.
But what though neither sigh nor tear
Was given to soothe her rest;
If closing here her brief career,
She went to dwell among the blest!
Was given to soothe her rest;
If closing here her brief career,
She went to dwell among the blest!
| Poems by the late John Bethune | |