The Baptistery, or the way of eternal life :: :: University of Virginia Library

The Churchyard,—'tis the nearest spot
Which lies adjoining to the plot
That now surrounds my earthly home,—
The nearest spot wherein I tread;
One step whene'er I leave this room,
And I am 'mid the voiceless dead.
If duty hence or pleasure call,
Whene'er I leave my rural hall,
In going or returning still,
In doing good or doing ill,
I tread the silent graves along.
That I in all might daily learn to die,
When I return, when forth I wend,
At the beginning, and the end,
I am the dead among.
And now my thoughts with them would dwell
Approaching, unapproachable.

The Churchyard,—'tis the spot of ground
Which lies the two great worlds between,

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The living and the dead;
The living by the graves are seen,
The dead in funeral fetters wound,
Their bodies in the winding sheet,
Their souls among the spirits led,
'Tis here the dead and living meet.
It is an awful spot,—to stand
With either world on either hand.
What countless paths do hither end,
Full of heart-breaking histories,
With all the sorrows that attend
The sunderings of a thousand ties!
The sorrows that surviv'd the dead,
Soon in the grave beside him laid;—
And sorrows of his dying bed,
Here wrapt alike in death's calm shade.
What countless paths do hence begin
To pass the eternal place within!
What spirits here, beyond the veil,
The disembodied soul have met,
When it hath left its mansion frail!
O what are thoughts which are with thee,
Who hast escapèd from the net
Which round thy path the fowler set,
And broken forth,—for ever free?

It is an awful thing to stand
With either world on either hand,
Upon the intermediate ground
Which doth the sense and spirit bound.
Woe worth the man who doth not fear
When spirits of the dead are near.

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How wild their awful destinies!
As stars that gleam among the trees,
'Tween leaves that tremble ere they fall,
When the Autumnal wind shall call,
And oft at intervals disclose
The interminable dread repose,
With watch-towers gleaming in their height
With something of unearthly light,—
Veiling the terrors they express,
Unspeakable in tenderness,
Drawing our thoughts with them to tread
The dwelling-places of the dead!

We send our thoughts with them to dwell,
But still the wall impassable
Bars us around with sensual bond,
In vain we dive for that beyond;
Yet traverse o'er and o'er the bound,
Walking on the unseen profound.
Thus flies, which fain would break away
Into th' expanse of open day,
They know not why, are travelling still
On the glass fence invisible:
So dwell our thoughts with the unseen,
Yet cannot pass the bourn between.

My spirit doth within me sink,
When thus I stand upon the brink,
And labour with them to converse
Hid in the boundless universe:
O 'tis a fearful thing to be
Within your silent company!

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This outer world doth seem to fail,
And stoutest heart turns pale;
Your very stillness seems to din,
And wake a deeper noise within.

Ye spirits that around us sleep
In stillness deep,
With nothing to be done again,
Beyond the sight and thoughts of men,
Who o'er your memories weep,
What are the thoughts which you attend,
Where all things end?
Come all around me with your spell
To mortal unattainable,
O'er my becalmèd senses creep,
And with yourselves my spirits steep.

Yes, 'tis an awful thing to die,
And yet unconquer'd in that agony,
Stronger than death, survives the spirit's love;
And may we then indeed believe you nigh,
Ye whom we lov'd, and wept so long?
No thoughts with power so grave and strong
The fountain depths of all our being move,
As ye who hidden are from view.
In summer light,
When all is bright,
The thoughts of you
Come o'er us like a loaded cloud;
In midnight deep,
When all things sleep,
Your awful presence speaks aloud.

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Come, teach us, for ye sure can tell,
What it is to be with God,
Safe from the avenging rod,
In the paths by spirits trod:
For with you I soon must dwell.
Spirits of the dead,
Be gently o'er me hither led,
Ye bodiless society!
Or if ye cannot come to me,
Yet I in thought to you will come;
For with you I soon must be,
Must dwell with you when life is done,
Far longer than I see the sun.
And I now would learn your lore,
Lest I then the loss deplore,
In the gloom,
And the silence of the tomb,
Where I nothing more can do,
But all now left undone shall then for ever rue.

Ye holy Dead, now come around,
In season more profound;
And through the barriers of our sense
Shed round your calming influence;
In silence come and solitude
With thoughts which o'er the mourner brood.
Ye sounds depart
That fill the heart
With noise of this tumultuous sphere;
Ye holy Dead, in peace draw near!
Now let the list'ning Earth be still,
With grove and hill;

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Let Sea and Land
In silence stand;
Let Ocean now his silence keep,
With all his thousand rivers deep;
Which in their mountain dwellings leap
From steep to steep.
Be silent, ye loud-footed Streams,
For holy silence best beseems.
Lest pensive Calm, and sober Rest,
Their twilight curtain o'er us weave;
Let sacred Eve,
And Contemplation be our guest.

Be hush'd, thou Pole,
And stars that round in order roll:
Let the soul
Herself be still'd,
With thoughts which idle bosom fill'd;
Let tongue and sign
Unspeakably be lost in awe divine!
Ye shadows fleeting o'er the grass,
And the steps of things that pass
To the grave,
In some calm and hallow'd cave,
Your dread influence o'er us wave.
Come around me ye that dwell,
Unapproachable,
By the gates of Heaven or Hell:
Unto me your wisdom tell!
All around, in calm profound,
I hear your voices from the ground;
Now lend me your unearthly ear,
That your deep wisdom I may hear.

153

Ye deathless spirits which have gone,
Gone haply to be yet more nigh,
All strangely and unspeakably,
Than when we saw you standing by;
Lo, where I now am left alone,
And would around your presence own,
Come to me!
If capable of change of place,
Bring ye near with awful face
Your dread society!
Lend me your Heaven-illumin'd sight,
That I with that may see aright
What ye do prize,
Seeing all things with your eyes,
With your eyes all things surveying,
And with you for ever praying.

Ye departed, stand ye nigh,
Let your presence make me wise
In the things ye now descry!
For haply ere the morning's rise,
Or before the evening's light,
One with you I may be found,
And never more behold the round
Of day and night.

Endless sleepers, teach me then,
For I trow the way ye go,
None can traverse back again.
Yea, 'tis a fearful thing to think,
Fearful beyond all we know,

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That before the rising sun
O'er night's sable brow shall sink,
Or before the night hath run
Through her course with star-light shod,
I may be with God.

Endless wakers, teach me now,
For I know,
Whether it be soon or late
Death may to me his warrant shew,
I ere long must pass the gate
Which doth bound this mortal state.
Ye that are where all must meet,
After this their winding-sheet,
Whate'er ye be, if rightly we
Substances or shadows call
Those that people your dark hall,
Stay awhile,
Till I learn your lesson stern;
That nothing may again my heart beguile.
Ye that evermore
Behold the true substantial Sun,
Where His short earthly race like yours is o'er:
What is it that ye desire?
What is it ye wish undone,
Or for ever now require,
Where impassable remains
Custody of viewless chains,
And eternity for ever reigns?

Can ye your secret not impart
In the dread silence of the heart?

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What is this
Which we may miss,
And the loss for ever mourn;—
Where penitence is fruitless and forlorn?

Buried friends, your voice I hear,
As the voice of Midnight clear,
If Midnight's self could find a tongue,
This would be her voice's sound;
All about it comes around,
One dread accent to prolong,
“No repentance in the grave,
And beyond no power to save;”
With one voice, both low and high,
Now they cry,
And multitudinous sounds reply.

And is this all
Ye wisdom call?
This I deem I know full well,
And we need no further spell,
From your dark bed
This to tell.
But there is an accent dread
In the voices of the dead,
When this lesson they proclaim,
Though the living speak the same.
Now I hear
Your accents clear,
Speaking wisdom more divine,
With me wheresoe'er I go.
I must hasten to the shrine,

156

For the bell
Tells the knell
Of the number'd hours that flow,
While it summons me to prayer,
And I trust ye will be there.

Lo, beneath the Altar nigh,
Now I hear your voices cry,
Lord, how long
Shall Thy chariot-wheels delay,
And the coming of that Day?
Lord, how long
Shall Thy Church in exile mourn,
Thy saints be with contention torn,
While Antichrist uprears his horn?

O Midnight, with thy dread serene,
Art thou the image of the scene,
Wherein the dead await the Judge's call,—
Peopling the dim and silent height,
In watches numberless and bright,
With darkness for their pall:—
The midnight when the voice was heard,
The Bridegroom comes;
And Angel callings the deep heart have stirr'd
Amid the silent tombs?

Midnight, thou hast found a tongue,—
Thy darkness and thy solitude
Do on the secret spirit brood,
When thou in dreams dost take the soul among
Scenes that have been buried long.

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Thy voice,—it doth not silence break,
But is as awful spirits speak,
Louder than the voice of men,
Though no sound is with us then;—
Speaking with no sound
In the heart's abyss profound,
In that place that is more deep
Than all but thoughts which are with sleep.

Midnight, could I see thy face,
Like the dark aërial space,
When the stars gleam in the eternal place,
And on all life there is a spell,
And a pause
Silent, dread, unspeakable,
Suspending nature's laws,
Which her dark curtain o'er us draws.
Thou seem'st to visit us from that dim cave,
Where they, whose fleshly robes are in the grave,
In silence and in stillness wait,
In intermediate state,
The Judgment gleaming in the Eastern gate.

Thought wanders forth afar,
Yet cannot pass the viewless bar,
And of that place can nothing guess,
But something like an awful sleep,
A something deep,
And shadowlike, yet shadowless.
Like Day, 'neath some still fountain seen,
With a white moon and cloudy sheen,
Unreal, yet like all we see,
In shadowlike immensity.

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Yet, doubtless, ye more real are than we,
Partaking nought of shadow or of gloom;
To be with Christ, and be at home,
While here as in a dream we roam.
Then strife is o'er, and work is done,
And Contemplation comes alone,
Wrapt in a twilight veil with dew besprent,
Through that deep door which death hath rent;
She comes to sit her by your side,
And in old Memory's ruin'd cell abide,
Recalling all the work that's o'er,
Recounting all her store,
That can be lessen'd and increas'd no more.

O fearful things do walk the night,
I fain would hide me from their sight;
The wind seems howling low beneath the trees,
Then silent sinks the breeze,
And nought I hear but sounds like distant seas.
I would with terror deep mine eyelids close,
From shades of other days in death's dark vale,
That come with many a tale,
And break on stillness of that dread repose.

O night, O stars, O blue profound,
Which hedge my fancy round,
When solemn Awe
Doth around her mantle draw,
With a strange unearthly dress,
As in dreams,
Visiting with starlight gleams
Of everlastingness;
When I would think of that dread cell,

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Peopled with the invisible!
But awful night is terrible,
And seems to speak the gates of Hell,
Where ghosts of my past sins may dwell.
Lord, in the rock with Thee let me abide,
Nay, in Thyself, the Rock, my spirit hide,
No phantom of past guilt that soul shall stir
Which finds in Thee her sepulchre.