Poems By Richard Chenevix Trench: New ed |
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A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD. |
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21
A WALK IN A CHURCHYARD.
We walked within the Churchyard bounds,
My little boy and I—
He laughing, running happy rounds,
I pacing mournfully.
My little boy and I—
He laughing, running happy rounds,
I pacing mournfully.
‘Nay, child! it is not well,’ I said,
‘Among the graves to shout,
To laugh and play among the dead,
And make this noisy rout.’
‘Among the graves to shout,
To laugh and play among the dead,
And make this noisy rout.’
A moment to my side he clung,
Leaving his merry play,
A moment stilled his joyous tongue,
Almost as hushed as they;
Leaving his merry play,
A moment stilled his joyous tongue,
Almost as hushed as they;
Then, quite forgetting the command
In life's exulting burst
Of early glee, let go my hand,
Joyous as at the first.
In life's exulting burst
Of early glee, let go my hand,
Joyous as at the first.
And now I did not check him more,
For, taught by Nature's face,
I had grown wiser than before
Even in that moment's space:
For, taught by Nature's face,
I had grown wiser than before
Even in that moment's space:
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She spread no funeral pall above
That patch of churchyard ground,
But the same azure vault of love
As hung o'er all around.
That patch of churchyard ground,
But the same azure vault of love
As hung o'er all around.
And white clouds o'er that spot would pass
As freely as elsewhere;
The sunshine on no other grass
A richer hue might wear.
As freely as elsewhere;
The sunshine on no other grass
A richer hue might wear.
And formed from out that very mould
In which the dead did lie,
The daisy with its eye of gold
Looked up into the sky.
In which the dead did lie,
The daisy with its eye of gold
Looked up into the sky.
The rook was wheeling overhead,
Nor hastened to be gone—
The small bird did its glad notes shed,
Perched on a grey head-stone.
Nor hastened to be gone—
The small bird did its glad notes shed,
Perched on a grey head-stone.
And God, I said, would never give
This light upon the earth,
Nor bid in childhood's heart to live
These springs of gushing mirth,
This light upon the earth,
Nor bid in childhood's heart to live
These springs of gushing mirth,
If our one wisdom was to mourn,
And linger with the dead,
To nurse, as wisest, thoughts forlorn
Of worm and earthy bed.
And linger with the dead,
To nurse, as wisest, thoughts forlorn
Of worm and earthy bed.
Oh no, the glory earth puts on,
The child's unchecked delight,
Both witness to a triumph won—
(If we but read aright,)
The child's unchecked delight,
Both witness to a triumph won—
(If we but read aright,)
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A triumph won o'er sin and death,
From these the Saviour saves;
And, like a happy infant, Faith
Can play among the graves.
From these the Saviour saves;
And, like a happy infant, Faith
Can play among the graves.
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