Image the Fourteenth: The Death of the Righteous

There is a spot beside a hill,
Where sleep the dead in holy ground.
Nor know I aught so sweet and still
As is the peace which there is found.

There, where beneath the church-yard wall
Adown the glen the waters fall.
Beneath a tapering ash-tree's shade
Three graves are by each other laid.

Around the very place doth brood
A strange and holy Quietude,
Where lingers long the evening gleam.
And stilly sounds the mountain stream.

I know not if it is the scene,
Bosom'd in hills by the ravine ;
Or if it is the conscious mind
Hallows the spot, and stills the wind.
And makes the very place to know
The peace of them that sleep below,
Investing nature with the spell
Of that strange calm unspeakable.

Methinks that both together blend
To hallow their calm peaceful end —
The thoughts of them that slumber there.
Seem still to haunt the holy ground ;
And e'en the spot and solemn air
Themselves partake that calm profound.
Methinks that He who oft at even
Brings stillness o'er the earth and Heaven,
Till mountains, skies, and neighbouring sea
Blend in one solemn harmony,
Hath caus'd e'en Nature's self to grace
Their sweet and holy resting-place.

It seems the air of Heaven, and so
It was when erst they liv'd below.
Around their dwelling seem'd to be
A charm of deep serenity ;
The vale, the hill, the quiet air.
Were made their hallow'd calm to share.
And whosoe'er to them drew near
Seem'd to put on a holy fear.

'Twas so erewhile — and when at last
One had surviv'd, and hence had past
To scenes of other neighbourhood.
Yet still the place of her abode
The skies and earth conspir'd to bless
With that unearthly quietness.

'Twas not the play of high-ton'd sense.
Nor keenly-eyed intelligence.
Which have a power I know full well
To charm us ; — but a deeper spell,
A something in a holy life,
Which, unapproachable by strife.
Shed its own halo round the spot,
That Care awhile herself forgot.
And Passion could not there intrude
Upon their holy quietude.

'Tis hard, when by affection led.
To speak of the long-cherish'd Dead,
Lest haply they should linger near.
And human praise should pain the ear
Of them who christ's own face behold,
Or hide them 'neath His garment's fold.

It is enough that, where they sleep,
The Angels still their watches keep,
Which round them in this world of sense,
Shed once their calming influence.

The blackbird there, when showers are gone,
Still pipes at eve his benison ;
And on the frosty vernal morn
The valley's cheerful sounds are borne
As erst upon the mountain side ;
The spot is still as ere they died ;
But there is something on the scene
More hallow'd now than it hath been.

I sought the place, when they were gone ; —
In silent pensiveness alone
I went upon the spot to grieve ;
It was a calm autumnal eve ;
And like a holy "pilgrimage

Its memory doth my heart engage ;

And oft when in this worldly life

I am overtaken with its strife,

That hour comes back with its deep calm.

And on my senses breathing balm.

Awakens thoughts that deepest dwell

Within the bosom's hidden well,

"Which makes the eyes with tears to swell.

Beneath an ash-tree's light-green shade
There side by side the Three are laid —
Laid by that church-yard gate at last.
Whereby they oft together pass'd.
That ash puts on and drops its leaves,
When the dishevell'd Autumn grieves ;
But no rude change again shall come.
To reach them in their peaceful home.

When Death first oped the silent door.
The youth arose, and went before,
And so from places of the blest
Grief came to be his parents' guest.
To fit them for his happier rest.

The Priest was such as Chaucer drew
In very lineament and hue ;
Save when his love o'er children bent.
It something to the surface sent, —
A child-like soul, which takes delight
In lowly deeds, and shews aright
The true and guileless israelite.
Often he seem'd by toil oppress'd,
Oftener in very toil at rest ;
Nor ever deem'd his labour done
Till he that last repose had won,
Where now the chequer'd shadows wave,
And breathe that peace above his grave.

Since he hath been in yonder tomb,
Full many a house hath caught the gloom,
Full many a widow's heart is cold.
And many used his hand to hold,
Have miss'd the shepherd of the fold.

Her form I see, though gone from sight.
Yet ne'er of her can speak aright ;
But if the Peace which dwells above

E'er took the form of earthly Love,

'Twas like that spirit meek, whose price

Is more than costliest sacrifice.
Lord, if my many sins below

Forbid me here that peace to know,

Grant when, from these my chains set free

I put on immortality,

I may be with them at the close.

And find at last their true repose.
When thus the door is shut at last.

And we sit musing on the past,

Releas'd from things that cheat the sight.

We seem to judge of life aright:

We seem with them whose day is o'er

To sit upon the eternal shore ;
Safe from the tumult and the wave,
And learn the wisdom of the grave.

Preach, read, and study as we will.
Death is the mighty teacher still, —
Here something of celestial light
Seems to break in upon the sight :
We seem to see as Angels see.
Taught somewhat of the mystery
Of them who, gather'd to the fold,
Afar this troubled scene behold ;
Where things of earth no more can charm,
Nor wake their wonder and alarm.
No more can their affections mock ;
While, hid within their sheltering Rock,
They hear the passing tempest roar ;
Hear the turmoil without the door,
Which shakes their faithless hearts no more.

Amuse our fancies as we will.
Death is the mighty teacher still :
Dispute, debate we as we may.
His is the wisdom none gainsay.
When he shall first uplift the veil,
And Memory sternly tells her tale ;
When lost Occasion goes to dwell
For ever with the Unchangeable ;
When all upturn'd the festive token.
The harp upon the ground lies broken.
The outside turn'd of Pleasure's mask,
And no one found her aid to ask ;
The feather'd plume is cast aside,
We have no more a heart for pride ;
And all the emblems of our play
Seem to upbraid our earthly stay ;
The lifeless toys all find a voice,
To tell us of our broken choice.
The world herself in silence stands.
And in amazement lifts her hands,
To see that now our work is o'er.
Of all our furniture and store,
What now remains our wants to meet,
Is nothing but a winding sheet :
While e'en our kindred from us go.
To share what we have left below.

Now the lone inmate of the tomb.
Is left to nakedness and gloom.
And laid in cold corruption's seat
His lingering friends seems to entreat ;
But all in vain, they cannot stay.
The silent mourners steal away.
To weep awhile, and then put n
The treasures left by him that's gone, —
To share them with the setting sun.

Let me awhile thy patience crave.
There is no teacher like the grave ; —
Come and behold this dying room.
Say, what can lighten here the gloom, —
When Sin doth at thy bosom knock.
And he whom thou hast made thy liege.
Doth call in Death thy woes to mock ?
And as he presses on the siege.
Within thy breast th' undying worm
Begins to shew his serpent-form, —
What else can cheer thee or illume.
And kindle light in that dim room,
But Virtue with her cross, to sight
Coming apparell'd in the light ;
As in a night of darkest noon,
Walking o'er clouds the silent moon ?

Refuse we counsel as we may.
Yet unto Death shall none say nay : —
Expanded is the solemn scroll,
Which Time throughout did still unroll.
And gave o'er earthly things to float,
But we had other sights to note ;
On all around us still he wrote
O vanity of vanities !
'Mid Heaven and earth the Angel flies.
And unto all creation cries
O vanity of vanities !
On every side the lesson lies,
Reveal'd to hands, and ears, and eyes —
The earth proclaims it to the skies.
The sky the same to earth replies,
O vanity of vanities !

This man doth unto man proclaim, —
Day tells to day on wheels of flame, —
His very nature and his frame.
His power, his riches, and his fame.
Resolves, and purposes, and aim,
Yea, e'en his sorrows and his shame,
Whatever he touches tells the same.
That vanity is man's true name.

Then cheat our fancies as we will,
Death is the mighty teacher still.
Still from ourselves ourselves we hide.
But he holds up the glass to pride,
And shews us, reft of all, in dress
Of our own utter nakedness.

Nor need we earthly garb or store.
To pass with us that awful door,
For should we gain such bliss, to come
Unto the everlasting home.
We need no clothing which decays.
But that which unto Faith is given,
Wove of imperishable rays,
The robe of holiness and Heaven.

To them whose pride and glory here
Lies buried in christ's sepulchre.
To pass from this our sky-arch'd room
Is but a leaving of the tomb.
If sensual leanings first shall cease.
Then to go hence is but release.
When alms and prayers have gone before,
And daily strivings to be poor
Disrobe us of mortality,
And in the heart's core breed that sigh
Which pierces Heaven, and from above
Brings down the pledg'd immortal Love.

Then when the Deeds which to the end
The disembodied soul attend.
Love with her bright beams shall have lit,
Faith, who at Eden's door doth sit.
Shall know them, and admit them there.
Bearing thy soul through fields of air.
To rest in peaceful Paradise,
Until the Judge unbars the skies.

If such their end who ere they die
Do put on immortality.
Then tell me is there spot below,
If thou to wisdom's school wouldst go.
Like that calm grave so deeply still
Upon the shelf of that green hill.
Where lingers long th' Autumnal eve.
As loath that tranquil scene to leave ?

Oft when the Day his race hath run.
Beyond the calm retiring sun,
The clouds our eyes love to beguile
With shadows of some blessed isle ;
But lest thereon too long we gaze
It disappears with parting rays.
That we from fancies yearning there
May turn, and for the night prepare.
And for the great eternal morn,
"Which on the wheels of night is borne :
When like the sun we see below.
The good through realms of space shall go.
And bear about them endless day,
While night before them flies away.