The bed wherein his cherish'd corpse was laid,
The chair which held his coffin; e'en the pall
Brought from his funeral-how thou loved'st them all;
And when the hour was come, when part we must
From the loved spot which held our darling's dust,
With what keen anguish wast thou torn away;
How, as our bark dash'd swiftly through the spray,
Didst thou still gaze on the receding bay,
As though thou leftest in that churchyard fair
The soul of him whose body sleepeth there.
Our journey was soon ended; o'er our town
The sun was going, in his glory, down,
Bright and rejoicing in a cloudless sky,
As we in melancholy thought drew nigh
Our once glad dwelling:―at the well known gate
The coach stopp'd short, and oh, how desolate
Seem'd our sweet home-how had its glory pass'd,
Its aspect faded since we saw it last;
Yet was it nothing alter'd; every tree
Was still as beauteous as it used to be,
And Autumn's mellow lustihood was shed,
In rich luxuriance, on each garden bed,
Then deck'd with many a bright and gorgeous flower,
While hops prolific, twining round the bower,
Into our hearts a fresh memorial sent
Of our late found, but ever cherish'd Kent.
Within doors all was, with assiduous care,
Garnish'd and swept, as if to meet us there
E'en with unusual welcome, every room
Still redolent of paint: and thus the gloom
Which wrapt our hearts, grew darker and more dense
From jarring contrast; the oppressive sense
Of that unfitness which we felt to be
Near aught that breathed of this world's gaiety.
Even this was bitter; but much more, alas!
The sad memorials of the bliss that was,
But is not, and henceforth shall be no more.
The chair, the crib, the silent nursery floor,
Now press'd no longer by his tiny tread,
His nurse's empty chair, and unmade bed;
Yea, e'en the absence of his wailing cry,
At midnight heard, when thou,with scarce closed eye,
And wakeful ear, wast ever prompt to start
At the least sound which told thy anxious heart,
Or seem'd to tell it, that thy child slept not;
This within doors: without, each turf-clad spot
On which he sat, or with his little hand
Grasping the outstretch'd finger, strove to stand
Or walk, secure from sudden trip or fall;
The hawk his infant accents loved to call,
The two tall elms shading that grassy mound,
Where, with his nurse, or us, on the green ground
He laugh'd and play'd so often; each of these,
And many more, waked sad remembrances,
And still must wake them: on thy desolate heart
At first they struck so sharply, that the smart
I think had overwhelm'd thee, but that she,
Our dear, dear friend, in tenderest sympathy,
Sent by strong impulse of confiding love,
Came, like a blessed angel from above,
With healing on its wings, to soothe and share
The sorrow, which in solitude to bear
Had been too grievous. When I saw thee press'd,
Beloved, with such fondness to that breast,
Which is the home of every gentle thought,
And every pure affection; when she sought,
Still intermingling with thy tears her own,
To show us that we sorrow'd not alone,
(I might almost have said scarce more than she,)
Methought I could have bless'd our misery
For bringing us such love; for thus revealing
The stream profound of pure and tender feeling
Which flows from her heart into thine and mine;
The richest boon which Providence Divine,
Lavish of good, hath on us two bestow'd,
The sweetest solace of that weary road
On which we travel between life and death,
Faint and perplext, and often out of breath,
But ne'er, I trust, to falter or despair,
While she walks with us, or before us there.
A fortnight now hath past; we have resumed Our wonted occupations, and entomb'd (Though it lives yet) in memory's deepest cell The sacred grief which we can never tell
To this cold world; to me 'tis strange, that thou Canst hide beneath so calm and smooth a brow The pangs which still thou feel'st; canst talk and smile
So lightly, though I know that all the while
Thy heart is wrung by recollections deep
And ever present thoughts, too sad to sleep :
That heart knows its own bitterness, which none
May intermeddle with, save haply one,
Thy partner, not thy peer, in this deep woe,
On whose fond breast thy tears in secret flow,
To whom thy secret soul is all made known,
And loved and prized as dearly as his own.
How beareth he his burden? O, sweet wife,
Methinks since yon dark day the face of life
Is strangely alter'd; all that then seem'd bright
Hath been enveloped in untimely night;
The spring of Hope is o'er, its freshness dead,
I feel as if ten mortal years had fled
In one month's space, and wonder that my head
Is still ungrizzled. Death's dread foot hath cross'd
Our threshold, and the charm at length seems lost
Which kept him thence; our house is now no more
The virgin fortress that it was before;
So unassail'd by sorrow, that even we
Almost supposed that so 'twould ever be ;
Almost forgot (all was so calm within)
That we were mortals, born in mortal sin,
And needed sorrow, till then never sent,
Both for reproof and for admonishment.
For years our stream of life had glided thus,
The griefs which pierced our neighbours touch'd
While fortune's storms raged round us long and loud, Sunshine, unchequer'd by a single cloud,
Lay on our home and hearth: we seem'd exempt
From Nature's common lot, and scarcely dreamt
Of the approach of ills, which yet we knew,
As Adam's children, we were subject to.
not only are we thus bereft
Of one bright hope, but over all that's left
Hangs an oppressive cloud of doubt and fear,
A sense of that uncertainty which here
Cleaves to whatever we possess or love,
Reminding us that nowhere but above
Our treasure may be housed. Shall we neglect
This lesson, or with godless hearts reject
The counsel which God sends us ? Oh! not so,
Lest we store up a heavier weight of woe,
Bring down more grievous chastisement, and lose
The benefit of this, should we refuse
To grieve when smitten, or desist from grief,
When comforted, as we are, with relief,
Such as few mourners share: 'tis my belief,
And, well I know, thine also, that God spoke
Most audibly to both in this sad stroke,
Admonishing of much that was amiss
In our past season of unclouded bliss;
Of much indulgence to dim dreams of sense,
Love of this world, and grievous indolence
Of heart, and mind, and will. Is it not well,
That the vain world which led us to rebel
Should thus be darken'd? what we used to prize
Too fondly should be taken from our eyes?
Only, we trust, to be for both reserved
In that bright world from which our thoughts have swerved
|