Part 18

I do not think, where’er thou art, 25 Thou hast forgotten me; And I, perhaps, may soothe this heart, In thinking still of thee: Yet there was round thee such a dawn Of light ne’er seen before, 30 As fancy never could have drawn, And never can restore! _Charles Wolfe._

CCXXXIX

_ON ANOTHER’S SORROW._

Can I see another’s woe, And not be in sorrow too? Can I see another’s grief, And not seek for kind relief?

Can I see a falling tear, 5 And not feel my sorrow’s share? Can a father see his child Weep, nor be with sorrow filled?

Can a mother sit and hear An infant groan, an infant fear? 10 No, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

And can He, who smiles on all, Hear the wren, with sorrows small, Hear the small bird’s grief and care, 15 Hear the woes that infants bear?

And not sit beside the nest, Pouring pity in their breast? And not sit the cradle near, Weeping tear on infant’s tear? 20

And not sit both night and day, Wiping all our tears away? Oh, no! never can it be! Never, never can it be!

He doth give his joy to all: 25 He becomes an infant small, He becomes a man of woe, He doth feel the sorrow too.

Think not thou canst sigh a sigh, And thy Maker is not by: 30 Think not thou canst weep a tear, And thy Maker is not near.

Oh! He gives to us his joy, That our griefs He may destroy: Till our grief is fled and gone 35 He doth sit by us and moan. _William Blake._

CCXL

_A DEAD ROSE._

O Rose, who dares to name thee? No longer roseate now, nor soft, nor sweet, But pale and hard and dry as stubble wheat,-- Kept seven years in a drawer, thy titles shame thee.

The breeze that used to blow thee 5 Between the hedgerow thorns, and take away An odour up the lane to last all day,-- If breathing now, unsweetened would forgo thee.

The sun that used to smite thee, And mix his glory in thy gorgeous urn, 10 Till beam appeared to bloom, and flower to burn,-- If shining now, with not a hue would light thee.

The dew that used to wet thee, And, white first, grow incarnadined because It lay upon thee where the crimson was,-- 15 If dropping now, would darken where it met thee.

The fly that ’lit upon thee, To stretch the tendrils of its tiny feet Along thy leafs pure edges after heat,-- If ’lighting now, would coldly overrun thee. 20

The bee that once did suck thee, And build thy perfumed ambers up his hive, And swoon in thee for joy, till scarce alive,-- If passing now, would blindly overlook thee.

The heart doth recognize thee, 25 Alone, alone! the heart doth smell thee sweet, Doth view thee fair, doth judge thee most complete, Perceiving all those changes that disguise thee.

Yes, and the heart doth owe thee More love, dead rose, than to’ any roses bold 30 Which Julia wears at dances smiling cold:-- Lie still upon this heart which breaks below thee! _Elizabeth Barrett Browning._

CCXLI

_AT THE CHURCH GATE._

Although I enter not, Yet round about the spot Ofttimes I hover; And near the sacred gate With longing eyes I wait, 5 Expectant of her.

The Minster bell tolls out Above the city’s rout, And noise and humming: They’ve hushed the Minster bell: 10 The organ ’gins to swell: She’s coming, she’s coming!

My lady comes at last, Timid, and stepping fast, And hastening hither, 15 With modest eyes downcast: She comes--she’s here--she’s past-- May Heaven go with her!

Kneel, undisturbed, fair Saint! Pour out your praise or plaint 20 Meekly and duly; I will not enter there, To sully your pure prayer With thoughts unruly.

But suffer me to pace 25 Round the forbidden place, Lingering a minute, Like outcast spirits who wait And see through Heaven’s gate Angels within it. 30 _William Makepeace Thackeray._

CCXLII

_ON AN INFANT DYING AS SOON AS BORN._

I saw where in the shroud did lurk A curious frame of Nature’s work; A floweret crushèd in the bud, A nameless piece of Babyhood, Was in her cradle-coffin lying; 5 Extinct, with scarce the sense of dying: So soon to’ exchange the imprisoning womb For darker closets of the tomb! She did but ope an eye, and put A clear beam forth, then straight up shut 10 For the long dark: ne’er more to see Through glasses of mortality. Riddle of destiny, who can show, What thy short visit meant, or know What thy errand here below? 15 Shall we say, that Nature blind Checked her hand, and changed her mind Just when she had exactly wrought A finished, pattern without fault? Could she flag, or could she tire, 20 Or lacked she the Promethean fire (With her nine moons’ long workings sickened) That should thy little limbs have quickened? Limbs so firm, they seemed to’ assure Life of health, and days mature: 25 Woman’s self in miniature! Limbs so fair, they might supply (Themselves now but cold imagery) The sculptor to make Beauty by. Or did the stern-eyed Fate descry 30 That babe or mother, one must die; So in mercy left the stock, And cut the branch; to save the shock Of young years widowed, and the pain When Single State comes back again 35 To the lone man who, reft of wife, Thenceforward drags a maimèd life? The economy of Heaven is dark, And wisest clerks have missed the mark Why human buds, like this, should fall 40 More brief than fly ephemeral That has his day; while shrivelled crones Stiffen with age to stocks and stones; And crabbèd use the conscience sears In sinners of an hundred years. 45 --Mother’s prattle, mother’s kiss, Baby fond, thou ne’er wilt miss: Rites, which custom does impose, Silver bells, and baby clothes; Coral redder than those lips 50 Which pale death did late eclipse; Music framed for infant’s glee, Whistle never tuned for thee; Though thou want’st not, thou shalt have them, Loving hearts were they which gave them. 55 Let not one be missing; nurse, See them laid upon the hearse Of infant slain by doom perverse. Why should kings and nobles have Pictured trophies to their grave, 60 And we, churls, to thee deny Thy pretty toys with thee to lie-- A more harmless vanity? _Charles Lamb._

CCXLIII

_ON THE SAME._

Child of a day, thou knowest not The tears that overflow thine urn, The gushing eyes that read thy lot; Nor, if thou knewest, could’st return!

And why the wish! the pure and blest 5 Watch like thy mother o’er thy sleep: O peaceful night! O envied rest! Thou wilt not ever see her weep. _Walter Savage Landor._

CCXLIV

_FIRE._

Sweet Maiden, for so calm a life Too bitter seemed thine end; But thou hadst won thee, ere that strife, A more than earthly Friend.

We miss thee in thy place at school, 5 And on thine homeward way, Where violets by the reedy pool Peep out so shyly gay:

Where thou, a true and gentle guide, Wouldst lead thy little band, 10 With all an elder sister’s pride, And rule with eye and hand.

And if _we_ miss, oh, who may speak What thoughts are hovering round The pallet where thy fresh young cheek 15 Its evening slumber found?

How many a tearful longing look In silence seeks thee yet, Where in its own familiar nook Thy fireside chair is set? 20

And oft when little voices dim Are feeling for the note In chanted prayer, or psalm, or hymn, And wavering wildly float,

Comes gushing o’er a sudden thought 25 Of her who led the strain, How oft such music home she brought-- But ne’er shall bring again.

O say not so! the springtide air Is fraught with whisperings sweet; 30 Who knows but heavenly carols there With ours may duly meet?

Who knows how near, each holy hour, The pure and child-like dead May linger, where in shrine or bower 35 The mourner’s prayer is said?

And He who willed thy tender frame (O stern yet sweet decree!) Should wear the martyr’s robe of flame, He hath prepared for thee 40

A garland in that region bright Where infant spirits reign, Tinged faintly with such golden light As crowns his martyr train.

Nay doubt it not: his tokens sure 45 Were round her death-bed shown: The wasting pain might not endure, ’Twas calm ere life had flown,

Even as we read of Saints of yore: Her heart and voice were free 50 To crave one quiet slumber more Upon her mother’s knee. _John Keble._

CCXLV

_ON BEING PRESSED TO GO TO A MASQUED BALL NOT MANY MONTHS AFTER THE DEATH OF MY CHILD._

Oh, lead me not in Pleasure’s train, With faltering step and faded brow; She such a votary would disdain, And such a homage disavow.

But art thou sure the goddess leads 5 Yon motley group that onward press? Some gaudy phantom-shape precedes, Arrayed in Pleasure’s borrowed dress.

When last I saw _her_ smile serene, And spread her soft enchantments wide, 10 My lovely child adorned the scene, And sported by the flowing tide.

The fairest shells for me to seek, Intent the little wanderer strayed; The rose that blossomed on his cheek 15 Still deepening as the breezes played.

Exulting in his form and face, Through the bright veil that beauty wove, How did my heart delight to trace A soul--all harmony and love! 20

Fair as the dreams by fancy given, A model of unearthly grace; Whene’er he raised his eyes to heaven, He seemed to seek his native place.

More lovely than the morning ray, 25 His brilliant form of life and light Through strange gradations of decay In sad succession shocked my sight.

And since that agonizing hour, That sowed the seed of mourning years, 30 Beauty has lost its cheering power, I see it through a mother’s tears.

Soon was my dream of bliss o’ercast, And all the dear illusion o’er; A few dark days of terror past, 35 And joy and Frederick bloom no more. _Melesina Trench._

CCXLVI

_THE DEATH BED._

We watched her breathing through the night, Her breathing soft and low, As in her breast the wave of life Kept heaving to and fro.

So silently we seemed to speak, 5 So slowly moved about, As we had lent her half our powers, To eke her living out.

Our very hopes belied our fears, Our fears our hopes belied; 10 We thought her dying when she slept, And sleeping when she died.

For when the morn came dim and sad, And chill with early showers, Her quiet eyelids closed--she had 15 Another morn than ours. _Thomas Hood._

CCXLVII

_LINES WRITTEN IN RICHMOND CHURCHYARD, YORKSHIRE._

Methinks it is good to be here; If Thou wilt, let us build--but for whom? Nor Elias nor Moses appear, But the shadows of eve that encompass the gloom, The abode of the dead and the place of the tomb. 5

Shall we build to Ambition? oh, no! Affrighted, he shrinketh away; For see! they would pin him below, In a small narrow cave, and, begirt with cold clay, To the meanest of reptiles a peer and a prey. 10

To Beauty? ah, no!--she forgets The charms which she wielded before-- Nor knows the foul worm that he frets The skin which but yesterday fools could adore, For the smoothness it held, or the tint which it wore. 15

Shall we build to the purple of Pride-- The trappings which dizen the proud? Alas! they are all laid aside; And here’s neither dress nor adornment allowed, But the long winding-sheet and the fringe of the shroud. 20

To Riches? alas! ’tis in vain; Who hid, in their turns have been hid: The treasures are squandered again; And here in the grave are all metals forbid, But the tinsel that shone on the dark coffin-lid. 25

To the pleasures which Mirth can afford-- The revel, the laugh, and the jeer? Ah! here is a plentiful board! But the guests are all mute as their pitiful cheer, And none but the worm is a reveller here. 30

Shall we build to Affection and Love? Ah, no! they have withered and died, Or fled with the spirit above; Friends, brothers, and sisters, are laid side by side, Yet none have saluted, and none have replied. 35

Unto Sorrow?--The dead cannot grieve; Not a sob, not a sigh meets mine ear, Which compassion itself could relieve! Ah! sweetly they slumber, nor hope, love, nor fear-- Peace, peace is the watchword, the only one here! 40

Unto Death, to whom monarchs must bow? Ah, no! for his empire is known, And here there are trophies enow! Beneath--the cold dead, and around--the dark stone, Are the signs of a Sceptre that none may disown! 45

The first tabernacle to Hope we will build, And look for the sleepers around us to rise; The second to Faith, which ensures it fulfilled; And the third to the Lamb of the great Sacrifice, Who bequeathed us them both when He rose to the skies. 50 _Herbert Knowles._

CCXLVIII

_TIME._

Unfathomable Sea! whose waves are years, Ocean of Time, whose waters of deep woe Are brackish with the salt of human tears! Thou shoreless flood, which in thy ebb and flow Claspest the limits of mortality! 5 And sick of prey, yet howling on for more, Vomitest thy wrecks on its inhospitable shore; Treacherous in calm, and terrible in storm, Who shall put forth on thee, Unfathomable Sea? 10 _Percy Bysshe Shelley._

CCXLIX

_SHE IS FAR FROM THE LAND._

She is far from the land where her young hero sleeps, And lovers are round her sighing; But coldly she turns from their gaze, and weeps, For her heart in his grave is lying.

She sings the wild songs of her dear native plains, 5 Every note which he loved awaking;-- Ah! little they think, who delight in her strains, How the heart of the Minstrel is breaking.

He had lived for his love, for his country he died, They were all that to life had entwined him; 10 Nor soon shall the tears of his country be dried, Nor long will his Love stay behind him.

Oh! make her a grave where the sunbeams rest, When they promise a glorious morrow; 14 They’ll shine o’er her sleep, like a smile from the West, From her own loved island of sorrow. _Thomas Moore._

CCL

_THE LAST MAN._

All worldly shapes shall melt in gloom, The sun himself must die, Before this mortal shall assume Its immortality! I saw a vision in my sleep, 5 That gave my spirit strength to sweep Adown the gulf of Time! I saw the last of human mould, That shall Creation’s death behold, As Adam saw her prime! 10

The sun’s eye had a sickly glare, The earth with age was wan, The skeletons of nations were Around that lonely man! Some had expired in fight,--the brands 15 Still rusted in their bony hands; In plague and famine some! Earth’s cities had no sound nor tread; And ships were drifting with the dead To shores where all was dumb! 20

Yet, prophet-like, that lone one stood, With dauntless words and high, That shook the sere leaves from the wood, As if a storm passed by-- Saying, We’ are twins in death, proud Sun, 25 Thy face is cold, thy race is run, ’Tis mercy bids thee go; For thou ten thousand thousand years Hast seen the tide of human tears, That shall no longer flow. 30

What though beneath thee man put forth His pomp, his pride, his skill; And arts that made fire, flood, and earth, The vassals of his will;-- Yet mourn I not thy parted sway, 35 Thou dim discrownèd king of day; For all those trophied arts And triumphs that beneath thee sprang, Healed not a passion or a pang Entailed on human hearts. 40

Go, let oblivion’s curtain fall Upon the stage of men, Nor with thy rising beams recall Life’s tragedy again. Its piteous pageants bring not back, 45 Nor waken flesh upon the rack Of pain anew to writhe; Stretched in disease’s shapes abhorred, Or mown in battle by the sword, Like grass beneath the scythe. 50

Even I am weary in yon skies To watch thy fading fire; Test of all sumless agonies, Behold not me expire.

My lips that speak thy dirge of death-- 55 Their rounded gasp and gurgling breath To see thou shalt not boast. The eclipse of nature spreads my pall,-- The majesty of darkness shall Receive my parting ghost! 60

This spirit shall return to Him Who gave its heavenly spark; Yet think not, Sun, it shall be dim, When thou thyself art dark! No! it shall live again, and shine, 65 In bliss unknown to beams of thine, By Him recalled to breath, Who captive led captivity, Who robbed the grave of victory, And took the sting from death! 70

Go, Sun, while mercy holds me up On nature’s awful waste, To drink this last and bitter cup Of grief that man shall taste-- Go, tell the night that hides thy face, 75 Thou saw’st the last of Adam’s race, On earth’s sepulchral clod, The darkening universe defy To quench his immortality, Or shake his trust in God! 80 _Thomas Campbell._

CCLI

_ROSE AYLMER._

Ah! what avails the sceptred race, Ah! what the form divine! What every virtue, every grace! Rose Aylmer, all were thine. Rose Aylmer, whom these wakeful eyes 5 May weep, but never see, A night of memories and of sighs I consecrate to thee. _Walter Savage Landor._

CCLII

_THE SPRING OF THE YEAR._

Gone were but the winter cold, And gone were but the snow, I could sleep in the wild woods Whe