Poems :: :: University of Virginia Library

Beneath the chancel's hallow'd stone,
Exposed to every rustic tread,
To few, save rustic mourners, known,
My brother, is thy lowly bed.
Few words, upon the rough stone graven,
Thy name—thy birth—thy youth declare—
Thy innocence—thy hopes of Heaven—
In simplest phrase recorded there.
No 'scutcheons shine, no banners wave,
In mockery, o'er my brother's grave.

The place is silent—rarely sound
Is heard those ancient walls around;
Nor mirthful voice of friends that meet
Discoursing in the public street,
Nor hum of business dull and loud,
Nor murmur of the passing crowd,
Nor soldier's drum, nor trumpet's swell
From neighbouring fort or citadel,—
No sound of human toil or strife
To death's lone dwelling speaks of life;
Nor breaks the silence, still and deep,
Where thou, beneath thy burial stone,
Art laid “in that unstartled sleep
The living eye hath never known.”
The lonely sexton's footstep falls
In dismal echoes on the walls,
As, slowly pacing through the aisle,
He sweeps the unholy dust away,

And cobwebs, which must not defile
Those windows on the Sabbath day;
And, passing through the central nave,
Treads lightly on my brother's grave.

But when the sweet-toned Sabbath chime,
Pouring its music on the breeze,
Proclaims the well-known holy time
Of prayer, and thanks, and bended knees;
When rustic crowds devoutly meet,
And lips and hearts to God are given,
And souls enjoy oblivion sweet
Of earthly ills, in thoughts of Heaven;
What voice of calm and solemn tone
Is heard above thy burial stone?
What form, in priestly meek array,
Beside the altar kneels to pray?
What holy hands are lifted up
To bless the sacramental cup?
Full well I know that reverend form,
And if a voice could reach the dead,
Those tones would reach thee, though the worm,
My brother, makes thy heart his bed;
That Sire, who thy existence gave,
Now stands beside thy lowly grave.

It is not long since thou wert wont
Within these sacred walls to kneel;
This altar, that baptismal font,
These stones which now thy dust conceal,
The sweet tones of the Sabbath bell,
Were holiest objects to thy soul;
On these thy spirit loved to dwell,
Untainted by the world's control.
My brother, those were happy days,
When thou and I were children yet;
How fondly memory still surveys
Those scenes the heart can ne'er forget!

My soul was then, as thine is now,
Unstain'd by sin, unstung by pain;
Peace smiled on each unclouded brow—
Mine ne'er will be so calm again.
How blithely then we hail'd the ray
Which usher'd in the Sabbath day!
How lightly then our footsteps trod
Yon pathway to the house of God!
For souls, in which no dark offence
Hath sullied childhood's innocence,
Best meet the pure and hallow'd shrine,
Which guiltier bosoms own divine.
I feel not now as then I felt,
The sunshine of my heart is o'er;
The spirit now is changed which dwelt
Within me, in the days before.
But thou wert snatch'd, my brother, hence,
In all thy guileless innocence;
One Sabbath saw thee bend the knee
In reverential piety—
For childish faults forgiveness crave—
The next beam'd brightly on thy grave.
The crowd, of which thou late wert one,
Now throng'd across thy burial stone;
Rude footsteps trampled on the spot
Where thou lay'st mould'ring and forgot;
And some few gentler bosoms wept
In silence, where my brother slept.

I stood not by thy fev'rish bed,
I look'd not on thy glazing eye,
Nor gently lull'd thy aching head,
Nor view'd thy dying agony:
I felt not what my parents felt,
The doubt—the terror—the distress—
Nor vainly for my brother knelt—
My soul was spared that wretchedness,
One sentence told me, in a breath,
My brother's illness—and his death!

And days of mourning glided by,
And brought me back my gaiety;
For soon in childhood's wayward heart
Doth crush'd affection cease to smart.
Again I join'd the sportive crowd
Of boyish playmates, wild and loud;
I learnt to view with careless eye
My sable garb of misery;
No more I wept my brother's lot,
His image was almost forgot;
And ev'ry deeper shade of pain
Had vanish'd from my soul again.

The well-known morn I used to greet
With boyhood's joy at length was beaming,
And thoughts of home and raptures sweet,
In every eye but mine, were gleaming;
But I, amidst that youthful band
Of beating hearts and beaming eyes,
Nor smiled nor spoke at joy's command,
Nor felt those wonted ecstasies:
I loved my home, but trembled now
To view my father's alter'd brow;
I fear'd to meet my mother's eye,
And hear her voice of agony;
I fear'd to view my native spot,
Where he who loved it—now was not.
The pleasures of my home were fled—
My brother slumber'd with the dead.

I drew near to my father's gate—
No smiling faces met me now—
I enter'd—all was desolate—
Grief sat upon my mother's brow:
I heard her as she kiss'd me, sigh,
A tear stood in my father's eye;
My little brothers round me press'd,
In gay unthinking childhood bless'd.

Long, long that hour has pass'd, but when
Shall I forget its mournful scene?

The Sabbath came—with mournful pace
I sought my brother's burial place—
That shrine, which when I last had view'd,
In vigour by my side he stood.
I gazed around with fearful eye—
All things reposed in sanctity.
I reach'd the chancel—nought was changed—
The altar decently arranged—
The pure white cloth above the shrine—
The consecrated bread and wine—
All was the same—I found no trace
Of sorrow in that holy place.
One hurried glance I downward gave—
My foot was on my brother's grave!

And years have pass'd and thou art now
Forgotten in thy silent tomb;
And cheerful is my mother's brow,
My father's eye has lost its gloom;
And years have pass'd, and death has laid
Another victim by thy side;
With thee he roams, an infant shade,
But not more pure than thou he died.
Blest are ye both! your ashes rest
Beside the spot ye loved the best;
And that dear home, which saw your birth,
O'erlooks you in your bed of earth.
But who can tell what blissful shore
Your angel spirits wander o'er?
And who can tell what raptures high
Now bless your immortality?

My boyish days are nearly gone,
My breast is not unsullied now;

And worldly cares and woes will soon
Cut their deep furrows on my brow—
And life will take a darker hue
From ills my brother never knew.
And I have made me bosom friends,
And loved and link'd my heart with others;
But who with mine his spirit blends,
As mine was blended with my brother's?
When years of rapture glided by,
The spring of life's unclouded weather,
Our souls were knit, and thou and I,
My brother, grew in love together.
The chain is broke which bound us then—
When shall I find its like again?

1816.