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40
MISERRIMUS.
When I am dead, and laid in gloom,
Oh, drop no tears above my tomb:
There let the evening breathe, and there
The wild rose trail her fragrant hair,
And in the opening of the spring
The throstle and the finch shall sing.
The dews slow-dropping overhead
Are gentler than the tears ye shed:
And wailings of a wintry wind
Are meeter far, if not so kind.
Oh, drop no tears above my tomb:
There let the evening breathe, and there
The wild rose trail her fragrant hair,
And in the opening of the spring
The throstle and the finch shall sing.
The dews slow-dropping overhead
Are gentler than the tears ye shed:
And wailings of a wintry wind
Are meeter far, if not so kind.
There shall I lie so calm at last
To hear the waters trickle past.
Down through the mould from stone to stone
The drops are slipping, one by one,
Struggling to win from troubled shores
The clear, deep, silent reservoirs.
To hear the waters trickle past.
Down through the mould from stone to stone
The drops are slipping, one by one,
Struggling to win from troubled shores
The clear, deep, silent reservoirs.
Some day it may be I shall feel
A thin white fibre through me steal,—
A root that reaching through the stones
Twines unaware about my bones,
And draws me to the upper day,
Till haply on a morn in May,
In some pure flowerbell sweetly pent
Or rose or myrtle innocent,
I see the happy dawn again,
The churchyard walls, the gilded vane,
The broad brown meadow-lands, with tree
And homestead dotted cheerily,
And in the tumult of delight
Scatter my scents from left to right,
So prodigal of all their grace
To deck my odorous sleeping-place,
That the dull villager who strays
Unheeding through the church-yard ways
May stoop to draw my breath, and tell
His mates how sweet the myrtles smell.
A thin white fibre through me steal,—
A root that reaching through the stones
Twines unaware about my bones,
And draws me to the upper day,
Till haply on a morn in May,
In some pure flowerbell sweetly pent
Or rose or myrtle innocent,
I see the happy dawn again,
The churchyard walls, the gilded vane,
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And homestead dotted cheerily,
And in the tumult of delight
Scatter my scents from left to right,
So prodigal of all their grace
To deck my odorous sleeping-place,
That the dull villager who strays
Unheeding through the church-yard ways
May stoop to draw my breath, and tell
His mates how sweet the myrtles smell.
Ah, it is all too fair, too fair!
I may not win the plenteous air.
Calm thoughts, and the caressing sense
Of love, are made for innocence:
And though sin wearies hearts, and shame
Is hard to bear, yet ours the blame:
Not every suffering can impart
The rest it craves: ah! mortal heart,
Think'st thou that thou may'st sin, and rot
As still as he that sinneth not?
I may not win the plenteous air.
Calm thoughts, and the caressing sense
Of love, are made for innocence:
And though sin wearies hearts, and shame
Is hard to bear, yet ours the blame:
Not every suffering can impart
The rest it craves: ah! mortal heart,
Think'st thou that thou may'st sin, and rot
As still as he that sinneth not?
I am not what you thought me, friends:
How can my spirit make amends?
You saw me calm and deemed it meant—
This apathy—a still content:
And took a sullen acquiescence
For gentle love's transforming presence.
Oh! better weep not o'er my grave
Than claim the love I never gave.
How can my spirit make amends?
You saw me calm and deemed it meant—
This apathy—a still content:
And took a sullen acquiescence
For gentle love's transforming presence.
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Than claim the love I never gave.
Now through the vast unshrinking years
This careless heart will sit in tears,
And through the darkness and the press
Of pain, will start from dreaminess,
To think real thoughts, and wholly prove
The spirit and the strength of love:
So weep not now: the dark shall teach
To break from silence into speech,
The love that grows in bitterness
Some day this chilly soul shall bless.
This careless heart will sit in tears,
And through the darkness and the press
Of pain, will start from dreaminess,
To think real thoughts, and wholly prove
The spirit and the strength of love:
So weep not now: the dark shall teach
To break from silence into speech,
The love that grows in bitterness
Some day this chilly soul shall bless.
Yet blame me not too much, but keep
The venomed tongue of ire asleep;
Deep was my fault, and faultier far
The sloth for effort, peace of war.
God knoweth why His mark is set
On this and that, nor doth forget
Why one is foul and base, and one
Is lovely when his work is done;
Why over one his lights are shed,
And one is sore dispirited.
I know not, I: but he who gave
Bounds to the thunders of the wave,
And with a silent glory fills
The purple spaces of the hills:
He knoweth: and what He hath planned
Is worthy of the master hand.
Farewell: why weepest? If I be
Worthy His purpose, thou shalt see
How out of taint of earthly spot
He works His wonders: and if not,
He knoweth: leave me; I have said,—
Henceforth I sit among the dead.
The venomed tongue of ire asleep;
Deep was my fault, and faultier far
The sloth for effort, peace of war.
God knoweth why His mark is set
On this and that, nor doth forget
Why one is foul and base, and one
Is lovely when his work is done;
Why over one his lights are shed,
And one is sore dispirited.
I know not, I: but he who gave
Bounds to the thunders of the wave,
And with a silent glory fills
The purple spaces of the hills:
He knoweth: and what He hath planned
Is worthy of the master hand.
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Worthy His purpose, thou shalt see
How out of taint of earthly spot
He works His wonders: and if not,
He knoweth: leave me; I have said,—
Henceforth I sit among the dead.
Cambridge, 1883. (Cambridge Review).
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