 | The hours of the passion and other poems |  |
99
ST. ALBAN'S BURIAL-GROUND
The swallows and white butterflies
Fly low down Guildford Street;
The wandering harpers at the door
Make music sounding sweet:
The golden sun of August shines
Above the yellow wheat.
Fly low down Guildford Street;
The wandering harpers at the door
Make music sounding sweet:
The golden sun of August shines
Above the yellow wheat.
The purple levels of the heath
Stretch wide to the Unknown;
The delicate sundew droops between,
In islets each alone;
The sweetness of the silent air
From fairyland is blown.
Stretch wide to the Unknown;
The delicate sundew droops between,
In islets each alone;
The sweetness of the silent air
From fairyland is blown.
The garden of the dead lies smooth,
In vistas long and green,
The fir-trees sweep the sunny turf,
With the low graves between;
Lawn after lawn runs opening out,
And still no end is seen.
In vistas long and green,
The fir-trees sweep the sunny turf,
With the low graves between;
Lawn after lawn runs opening out,
And still no end is seen.
They lie around their Calvary,
All sleeping in the sun,
The faithful, the emancipate,
Whose sabbath has begun,
Far from the dark and narrow ways,
In which their rest was won.
All sleeping in the sun,
100
Whose sabbath has begun,
Far from the dark and narrow ways,
In which their rest was won.
The thyme lies lowly at their feet,
In measureless perfume,
The bees are humming all around
Amid the heather bloom,
The blue-winged moths hang motionless
Upon the quiet tomb.
In measureless perfume,
The bees are humming all around
Amid the heather bloom,
The blue-winged moths hang motionless
Upon the quiet tomb.
Do they remember the long days
Of want and care's increase;
The noisy days, the crowded nights,
The toil that did not cease?
Did there come to them through the din
The vision of this peace?
Of want and care's increase;
The noisy days, the crowded nights,
The toil that did not cease?
Did there come to them through the din
The vision of this peace?
The simple, and the penitent,
The broken-down, the young,
Together in their pilgrimage
Have they not prayed and sung?
They gather here once more at last,
To rest their own among.
The broken-down, the young,
Together in their pilgrimage
Have they not prayed and sung?
They gather here once more at last,
To rest their own among.
Oh, well for them that they have here
A resting-place so sweet!
A waft of rose and rosemary
Steals through the sultry street;
One sleeps, one watches—both of them
In this last home shall meet.
A resting-place so sweet!
A waft of rose and rosemary
Steals through the sultry street;
One sleeps, one watches—both of them
In this last home shall meet.
101
The lambs are born upon the hills,
Amid the winter snow;
The babes are born in London streets,
Where fire and lights burn low;
They come with crying and with tears,
But they are glad to go.
Amid the winter snow;
The babes are born in London streets,
Where fire and lights burn low;
They come with crying and with tears,
But they are glad to go.
They have a happy playing-place,
Where they may laugh and run,
Their angels hold them by the hand,
Soft-singing every one,
They dance upon a sward like this
Beneath a summer sun.
Where they may laugh and run,
Their angels hold them by the hand,
Soft-singing every one,
They dance upon a sward like this
Beneath a summer sun.
Eastward God keeps a garden,
The wingèd souls fly there:
There is no weight of heaviness
Through all the limpid air;
They have forgotten like a dream
This load of flesh we bear.
The wingèd souls fly there:
There is no weight of heaviness
Through all the limpid air;
They have forgotten like a dream
This load of flesh we bear.
The sunrise shows the gates of it,
That open always stay;
You look towards it at the Creed,
It is not far away;
Dying at noon you may arrive
Before the fall of day.
That open always stay;
You look towards it at the Creed,
It is not far away;
Dying at noon you may arrive
Before the fall of day.
Have we not been there—who can tell—
In sleep, when souls walk free?
O land that lies beyond the veil,
What did we hear and see?
Some shadow in the noonday floats
Of long-lost memory.
In sleep, when souls walk free?
O land that lies beyond the veil,
What did we hear and see?
Some shadow in the noonday floats
Of long-lost memory.
102
It must be near, for when the soul
Has crossed the parting stream,
A touch, a whisper brings it back
Into this earthly dream,
And we forget the things that are,
Lost in the things that seem.
Has crossed the parting stream,
A touch, a whisper brings it back
Into this earthly dream,
And we forget the things that are,
Lost in the things that seem.
But they will pass the waves no more,
They will not wake again;
In fields of lilies far away
The languid limbs have lain;
Amid the palms of Paradise
Doth their long rest remain.
They will not wake again;
In fields of lilies far away
The languid limbs have lain;
Amid the palms of Paradise
Doth their long rest remain.
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