Cowper's Grave

It is a place where poets crown'd may feel the heart's
decaying;
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their
praying.
Yet let the grief and humbleness, as low as silence,
languish:
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave
her anguish.

O poets, from a maniac's tongue was poured the deathless singing!
O Christians, at your Cross of hope, a hopeless hand was clinging!
O men, this man in brotherhood your weary paths
beguiling,
Groan'd inly while he taught you peace, and died while
ye were smiling!

And now, what time ye all may read through dimming
tears his story,
How discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory,
And how when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering
lights departed,
He wore no less a loving face because so broken-hearted,
He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration;
Nor ever shall he be, in praise, by wise or good forsaken,
Named softly as the household name of one whom God
hath taken.

With quiet sadness and no gloom I learn to think upon
him, —
With meekness that is gratefulness to God whose heaven
hath won him,
Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud to His own love to
blind him,
But gently led the blind along where breath and bird
could find him;

And wrought within his shatter'd brain such quick poetic senses
As hills have language for, and stars, harmonious influences.

The pulse of dew upon the grass kept his within its
number,
And silent shadows from the trees refresh'd him like
a slumber.

Wild timid hares were drawn from woods to share his
home-caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes with sylvan tendernesses.
The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's
ways removing,
Its women and its men became, beside him, true and
loving.

And though, in blindness, he remain'd unconscious of
that guiding,
And things provided came without the sweet sense of
providing,
He testified this solemn truth, while frenzy desolated,
— Nor man nor nature satisfy whom only God created.

Like a sick child that knoweth not his mother while she blesses
And drops upon his burning brow the coolness of her
kisses, —
That turns his fevered eyes around — 'My mother!

where 's my mother?'—
As if such tender words and deeds could come from any
other! —

The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him,
Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love
she bore him! —
Thus, woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic Eyes, which closed in death to save him.

Thus? oh, not thus! no type of earth can image that
awaking,
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs, round
him breaking,
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted,
But felt those eyes alone, and knew, — 'My Saviour! not deserted.!'

Deserted! Who hath dreamt that when the cross in
darkness rested,
Upon the Victim's hidden face, no love was manifested?
What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er the atoning
drops averted?
What tears have wash'd them from the soul, that one
should be deserted?

Deserted! God could separate from his own essence
rather;
And Adam's sins have swept between the righteous Son
and Father.
Yea, once, Immanuel's orphan'd cry his universe hath
shaken —
It went up single, echoless, 'My God, I am forsaken!'

It went up from the Holy's lips amid his lost creation,
That, of the lost, no son should use those words of desolation!

That earth's worst frenzies, marring hope, should mar
not hope's fruition,
And I, on Cowper's grave, should see his rapture in
a vision.