Domestic Fame

Why is the Grave so silent? Why is the Tomb
so dead?
Wherefore this gloomy secret on each departed
head?
Why do we name them seldom, and then with
voices low,
As if some shame were on them, or superhuman
woe?
Were Death the sleep eternal that some despairing
feign,
Had never Faith engendered the hope to meet
again,—
Still why should this great absence obliterate with
its tears
The happiest recollections and sympathies of years?
Oh no! Death could not banish the love that lived
complete,
And passed away untarnished to its celestial seat!
Oh no! tis not the living th at we should harshly
blame,
But that men lightly cherish their pure domestic fame.
How few leave not behind them some cause to bless
the tomb,
That mercifully closes, and pardons in its gloom!
How few go from us, leaving the thoughts of them
so dear,
That aye the prayer besets us, " O God! that they
were here! "
So that in distant evenings, when joyous faces glow
About the Christmas firelight and laughter melts
the snow, —
In pauses of the revel, some heart without a fear,
Will passionately murmur — " Ah! why are they not
here? "
Or that in weary seasons, when sickness racks the
brain,
And lordly Reason falters, and Will is only pain, —
Those whom they loved to counsel may mystically
hear
Their voices leading onwards the path they trod
when here:
Or that in awful moments, when evil scenes set free
To tempt mankind to question what God of Truth
there be, —
The sense how they, too, strove and conquered,
serves to cheer
The struggler, dimly conscious of spirits watching near.
Not, then, to Heroes only, to Poet, Statesman, King,
Let care of future glory its anxious duties bring
There is no name so lowly, that may not raise
a shrine
Of living hearts, to honour its memory as Divine!