and on our mournful way
We wended to the church-yard, wherein I
Had mark'd before the spot where he should lie, My last sad office of parental care,
The fairest spot where all was passing fair;
A pleasant nook at the extremest end,
O'er which two stately sycamores extend
Their meeting branches, and the virgin ground,
Still without graves for some small space around,
Seem'd by strange chance to have been kept apart
For our sweet babe, that each paternal heart
Might have, when grief's first bitterness was gone,
One pleasant spot for thought to rest upon.
There, in the stillness of that sacred shade,
With many a tear the cherish'd dust we laid,
And turn'd us homeward; but still many a day
Our lingering steps trode and retrode the way
Which led us to his grave; and there didst thou,
With tear-suffused eyes and pale sad brow,
Sit by my side, and with thy pencil trace
Each feature of the loved though mournful place;
While, with no unblest ministry, did I
In thoughtful mood my task poetic ply,
Drawing sweet solace from the busy brain,
To ease the pressure of the heart's dull pain,
Which would not be dispell'd :—when I reflect
How long that gift, laid by in deep neglect,
Had slumber'd in my soul, and what relief
Was brought by its revival to our grief,
I scarce can think, but that the recent woe
Felt by our friends, which caused the stream to flow Once more within my heart, by Heaven was sent In kindness to us two, with the intent
That powers call'd forth to soothe their deep distress Should prove a solace to our bitterness;
For this we rest their debtors, but much more-
(Ah me, how much!) for that most blessed store
Of comfort which ere long their letters brought,
Breathing deep sympathy and christian thought,
A treasure inexhaustible of love,
Not of this earth, but kindled from above:
Making us feel, in our extremest need,
That none but Christians can be friends indeed.
And now three mournful weeks were past and gone
Since death's drear visit, and a simple stone
Meanwhile had on our darling's grave been placed,
On which a simple epitaph was traced,
Writ by my hand-a record sad and brief
Of his past sweetness, of our present grief,
And the fond hope which ne'er will pass away,
Of blest re-union to endure for aye,
When Death shall be no more. At length the day
Of our departure came, and we must say
Farewell, with lingering steps and tearful eyes,
To the sweet spot where our lost treasure lies.
With what heart-rending agony to thee
Thou well remember'st, and with grief, by me,
Felt, as I think, more from deep sympathy
With thy exceeding sorrow, than for aught
Suggested to myself of painful thought
By that leave-taking. It will doubtless seem
A paradox to many; yet I deem
That we of the wild heart and wandering brain
Are less accessible to joy or pain
From such associations-find the scene
Of joy long past, or sorrow which hath been,
Less pregnant with ideal bliss or woe
Than others do, whose feelings are more slow,
Whose fancies less intense.
When we survey
The wrecks and reliques of the olden day-
Old battle-field, or camp, or ruin grey
Of abbey or of fortress, we feel less
Of its past pride, than of the loveliness
Which Time hath shed around it; others cast
Their mind's eye far more fondly on the past,
And muse so fixedly on days gone by,
That they impart a dread reality,
A present life, to things that were of old,
Peopling with phantoms what they now behold
In ruin and decay. So do not we;
Our light wing'd thoughts so easily can flee
From that which is to that which ought to be,
Glance with such swiftness from the scene that's nigh
Into the airiest realms of phantasy,
That if such scene should raise a transient pain
Within the heart, the ever ready brain,
Almost ere felt, disperses it again,
Filling its place with fancies sweet and strange And rich, and ever on the range.
'Tis this, and more than this, the poet's eye
So keen to seek, so ready to descry
All visible beauty, and the poet's breast
So eager to enjoy, so glad to rest,
In contemplation calm and deep delight,
Known but to him, on every lovely sight
Of nature or of art, extracting thence
Whate'er it yields to gladden outward sense
Unmix'd and undisturb'd-'tis this that takes
The pressure from our hearts; 'tis this that makes
The interest, deep and keen, which others feel
In the mere scene of former woe and weal,
Known by themselves or others, less acute
In us than them. E'en now with careless foot
I traverse haunts where thou and I together
Roam'd hand in hand in youth's unclouded weather,
As love's sweet fancies led ts; view the stream
On whose green banks we used to sit and dream
Of bliss to come, and pleasantly beguile
The lingering days of courtship; cross the stile
Where first our faith was plighted, and for life
Thou gavest thyself to me, my bride, my wife,
The mother of my children; pass each spot
Hallow'd by feelings ne'er to be forgot;
Yet, all the while, see little and feel less
Of aught except its present loveliness.
This is not so with thee; thy gentle heart
Dwells, I well know, most fondly on each part
Of all that cherish'd scene, and interweaves
E'en with the slightest whisper of its leaves,
The gush of its sweet waters, thoughts most dear
And recollections nursed for many a year,
And to be nursed for ever.
Together stood beneath one spreading tree
Of those which shade the grave, a heavier weight
Press'd on thy heart, and made it desolate,
Than mine then felt; O, not because my heart
Had then, or at this hour hath ceased to smart ;
Still less because my faith, more strong than thine,
Soar'd higher from the grave to things divine:
'Twas simply that my nature is less prone
Than thine to see, in simple sod and stone,
That which lies hid beneath them; is less moved
By outward tokens of things lost and loved;
Grieves and rejoices, in its joy and grief,
Without excitement, and without relief,
From visible memorials, and is slow
To give admission to ideal woe.
So, knowing that mine eyes no more should see
My child on earth, it matter'd not to me
That I was soon to quit the burial place
Of him whom I should ne'er again embrace;
Whose infant voice no more should glad mine ear;
Whose infant kiss no more delight me here.
I felt the gift resumed by Him who gave:
The soul was gone, why linger at the grave?
But thou! Alas, what pain was thine to leave
That, and each spot where thou hadst loved to grieve;
How oft thy restless step and tearful eye
Roved thro' the room where thou hadst seen him die.
How oft, how fondly, thy sad looks survey'd
|