Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

There is a voice which never sleeps,—
From day to day, from year to year,
Monotonous accord it keeps
With hearts which throb its tones to hear;
No moment passes, but on earth
It tells of sadden'd home and hearth,
Of widow'd spouse, of childless sire,
Of orphans in their misery left,
Of brothers, sisters, friends, bereft
Of all their heart's desire.

Strange fancies doth its solemn sound
To meditative ear suggest,
Of joy and grief alike profound,
Of earthly tears, of heavenly rest,
Of living hearts with anguish riven,
Of souls which part redeem'd, forgiven;
Of others whom surviving love
Pursues with mingled doubt and fear,
Uncertain if disseverance here
Will terminate above.

To-day I heard that solemn sound;
Expected on my ear it broke,
To tell me that repose was found
By one of whose release it spoke

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From long, long years of mortal pain,—
Of loving hearts which still remain—
Their anxious watchings done and past,—
The wakeful night, the weary day
With her who in her anguish lay,
Exchanged for rest at last;—

The room of sickness throng'd no more,—
The breathless hush, the silent tread
Of sister footsteps on the floor
Around the dying sister's bed;—
At the domestic meal to-day
One seat is void—one face away,—
The rest assembled mutely feel
That now no task of patient love
Demands that one remain above
To help, where none can heal.

At night strange footsteps over-head
Give note of preparation drear,
To bear the unresisting dead
Away from all she loved so dear.
To-morrow, when they seek the room
Where still she lies, a deeper gloom
Its solemn stillness will o'er-cloud;—
The ghastly trappings of the grave
On her restored to Him who gave;—
The coffin and the shroud.

Another morn—and through the door
That lifeless form, beloved so long,
Shall vanish to return no more,
Borne by a sad funereal throng
Of mourners, headed by their chief,
And robed in sable garb of grief;—

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Anon, within the churchyard walls,
The vault re-open'd for the dead,—
The mould upon the coffin spread,
Which rattles as it falls.

Dread symbols, which oppress the heart
With mortal sadness all their own,
And speak but of our baser part—
This mouldering mass of flesh and bone:
A darker grief, a deeper gloom
Should herald sinners to their doom,
Whom unrepented sin drags down;
While marriage peals and bridal white
Should celebrate the sunward flight
Of saints who claim their crown.

That crown the enfranchised sufferer wears,
(Doubt not, ye mourners, nor distrust,)
Of whom to-day, with parting prayers,
We render back the dust to dust.
Through tribulation long and sore,
Which she with faith and patience bore,
Her spirit cleans'd—her sin forgiven—
Victorious over mortal pain,
She broke the last strong links which chain
Earth's holiest back from Heaven.

No common mind was hers, I wot,
Albeit on earth ordain'd to share
A common, undistinguish'd lot,
A meek and modest part to bear:
Calm, cheerful, self-possess'd, sedate,
She kept her life-long celibate,
Attendant still on duty's call;
Consoled the grief, enjoy'd the mirth
Of those who shared her home and hearth,
Beloved, revered by all.

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To her, by no unkind decree,
One door was shut of outward sense,
And thus her soul preserved more free
From taint of moral pestilence:
Through entrance of the fleshly ear
No sound, which she disdain'd to hear,
Could her unwilling sense enthral;
She shunn'd the false, received the true,
The good without the evil knew,
Like Eve before her fall.

And more than all she might have gain'd
Of knowledge through that sense denied,
With stedfast purpose she obtain'd,
And patient, self-improving pride;
Self-disciplin'd, almost self-taught,
And strengthen'd by habitual thought
And study both of books and men,
Well stored with wisdom's wealth she grew,
Could teach, direct, advise, as few
Can do with tongue or pen.

An earnest, energetic soul
Was hers, on active labours bent,—
Fit to command and to controul,
And still on generous aims intent:
But when with Christian zeal her breast,
As life wore on, was now possest,
And she to work her Master's will
Her whole concentred being gave,
A spirit more resolved and brave
Did ne'er such task fulfil.

On peaceful days her lot was cast,
And though a peaceful life she led,
A spirit as of times long past
Was in her heart and in her head.

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The name was hers, in days of yore
Which that Bethulian Matron bore,
Who saved by one undaunted blow
Her country and her spotless fame,—
And she, I deem, had done the same,
If Heav'n had will'd it so.

But born in less ungentle days,
And nurtur'd in a milder creed,
'Twas her's, to walk in happier ways,
A Christian both in word and deed.
Her joy with fervent words to win
The sinner from his path of sin,
To utter, as with tongue of flame,
The truth which in her bosom glow'd,
And to the straight and narrow road
The wandering soul reclaim.

And thus abroad, and thus at home,
Did she her path of love pursue,
Until the wane of life was come,
And longer now the shadows grew.
Then 'twas,—as though with suffering long
To tame that spirit bold and strong,
And make it as resign'd to bear,
As firm to work, the will of God,—
That sickness came with chastening rod
To smite, and not to spare.

Twelve years with racking pain she strove,
Still deepening on from worse to worse,
While still, with unabated love,
Each sister play'd the patient nurse;
And on her face, and in her mien,
A premature old age was seen;

390

And in her agony of breath,
And in her worn and wasted form
Appear'd, how fearful was the storm
Which swept her on to death.

But then, from out the inner soul,
A glory, not discerned before,
With most serene effulgence stole,
And burn'd and brighten'd more and more;
A glory, kindled from above,
Of firmest faith and hope and love,
Transfiguring the outward man
Into its own celestial light,—
A raiment so resplendent white
No fuller whiten can.

The earthly was unearthly made,
The mortal had immortal grown,
All things which fail, all things which fade,
Assumed a nature not their own:
And still, as droop'd the outward flesh,
The soul within grew strong and fresh,
And while the frame was rent and riven
With deadliest pain, all eyes might see
That with internal rapture she
Already tasted heaven.

But though, as you might well infer,
Partaker of a heavenly birth,
Her bliss abated nought in her
Of her old sympathies of earth.
She loved, as in her youthful prime,
The household jest, the poet's rhyme;
Still than of old enjoy'd no less
The company of friends who came
To cheer her with a friendly game
(The tea removed) at chess.

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But most of all she loved the sport
Of children and their artless ways,
And made her chamber the resort
Of gamesome elves and sprightly fays,
While strength for that sufficed her yet;
My own, I ween, will ne'er forget
Those liberal gifts, that sumptuous fare,
And how her pain she would beguile
By watching, with a silent smile,
Their gambols from her chair.

Why dwell on nature's dread decay,—
The agony of mortal strife,—
The soul that longed to flee away
And be at rest in death from life?
Such struggles all must share and see,
Or e'er the spirit can be free
From mortal sickness, grief, and pain;
But ill doth such stern anguish suit
The tinkling of the minstrel's lute,
The bard's fantastic strain.

She died:—what marvel?—all must die,
The strong, the weak, the young, the old:
'Tis time that we our tears should dry
For one whose funeral knell hath toll'd.
Our race, like hers, will soon be run,
Our crown for ever lost or won:
On! Christians! where, with beckoning hand,
The loved, the lost, the pure, the brave,
Their cross-emblazon'd banner wave
Above the promised land.