REQUIEM.
[_]
(Four o'clock morning, 3rd of the month. David Scott died
5th March, 1849.)
The winds are wandering through the long night,
Hushing and moaning round chimney and roof;
The ashes fall white from the dull fire-light,
The great shadows dance on the walls aloof,
While the soul of my brother recedes.
Fitfully crumble the embers away;
Abroad over all flies the roaring wind;
And the rain-clouds, through the obscurity,
Hurry along the moon, silently kind,
Like an opened window in heaven.
The pitiless Norns are visible now
Between the dim gateways of gold and horn;
For the nimbus of death is over his brow,
And his cunning right hand lies feeble and worn,
Never again to be strong.
Go back, go back! would the spirit fain say,
To the in-pressing darkness and walls of stone;
For the eye of hope is as wide as day
Through the impending infinity;
His short day's work is but half done,
And still young the manifold heart.
Come back, come back! doth the world demand;
Come to the harvest, thou sower of seed!
And the kindred labourers on the strand
Of this dear human region plead,
‘Go not! of thee we have wondrous need,’
And hail him with lifted arms.
The black angel hears not; the ages dead
And the ages to come are one family,
Under the All-Father's mantle hid;
Gains, even of art and of poetry,
Are but chaff from the garner of time.
The blast is wandering through the long night;
Within the dark curtains the straight limbs lie;
Faintly flickers the last fire-light;
But hark, the cock crows! for morning is nigh,
Silently lifting the cold wet sky,
While the soul of my brother recedes.
