Death.

BENEATH the endless surges of the deep,
Whose green content o’erlaps them evermore,
A host of mariners perpetual sleep,
Too hushed to heed the wild commotion’s roar;
The emerald weeds glide softly o’er their bones,
And wash them gently mid the rounded stones.
No epitaph have they to tell their tale,
Their birthplace, age, and story, all are lost,
Yet rest they deeply, as within the vale
Those sheltered bodies by the smooth slates crossed,
And countless tribes of men lie on the hills,
And human blood runs in the crystal rills.

The air is full of men, who once enjoyed
The healthy element, nor looked beyond,—
Many, who all their mortal strength employed
In human kindness, of their brothers fond,—
And many more, who counteracted fate,
And battled in the strife of common bate.
Profoundest sleep enwraps them all around,
Sages and sire, the child and manhood strong,
Shed not one tear, expend no sorrowing sound,
Tune thy clear voice to no funereal song,
For, oh! Death stands to welcome thee and me,
And life hath in its breath a steeper mystery.

I hear a bell, that tolls an empty note,
The mourning anthem, and the sobbing prayer;
A grave fresh-opened, where the friends devote
To mouldering darkness a still corse, once fair
And beautiful as morning’s silver light,
And stars which throw their clear fire on the night.
She is not here, who smiled within these eyes,
Warmer than spring’s first sunbeam through the pale
And tearful air,—resist these flatteries;—
O, lay her silently alone, and in this vale
Shall the sweet winds sing better dirge for her,
And the fine, early flowers her death-clothes minister.

O, Death! thou art the palace of our hopes,
The storehouse of our joys, great labor’s end;
Thou art the bronzed key, which swiftly opes
The coffers of the past; and thou shalt send
Such trophies to our hearts, as sunny days,
When life upon its golden harp-string plays.
And when a nation mourns a silent voice,
That long entranced its ear with melody,
How thou must in thy inmost soul rejoice,
To wrap such treasure in thy boundless sea!
And thou wert dignified, if but one soul
Had been enfolded in thy twilight stole.

Triumphal arches circle o’er thy deep,
Dazzling with jewels, radiant with content;
In thy vast arms the sons of genius sleep,
The carvings of thy spheral monument,
Bearing no recollection of dim time,
Within thy green and most perennial prime.
And might I sound a thought of thy decree,—
How lapsed the dreary earth in fragrant pleasure,
And hummed along o’er life’s contracted sea,
Like the swift petrel, mimicking the waves’ measure;—
But though I long, the sounds will never come,
For, in thy majesty, my lesser voice is dumb.

Thou art not tender of thy precious fame,
But comest, like the clouds, soft-stealing on;
Thou soundest in a careless key the name
Of him, who to thy boundless treasury is won;
And yet he quickly cometh; for to die
Is ever gentlest, to both low and high.
Thou, therefore, hast humanity’s respect;
They build thee tombs upon the green hill-side,
And will not suffer thee the least neglect,
And tend thee with a desolate, sad pride;
For thou art strong, O Death, though sweetly so,
And in thy lovely gentleness sleeps woe.

O, what are we, who swim upon this tide,
Which we call life, yet to thy kingdom come?
Look not upon us till we chasten pride,
And preparation make for thy high home;
And, might we ask, make measurely approach,
And not upon these few, smooth hours encroach.
I come—I come—think not I turn away!
Fold round me thy gray robe! I stand to feel
The setting of my last, frail, earthly day;
I will not pluck it off, but calmly kneel,—
For I am great as thou art, though not thou,
And thought, as with thee, dwells upon my brow.

Ah! might I ask thee, spirit, first to tend
Upon those dear ones whom my heart has found,
And supplicate thee, that I might them lend
A light in their last hours, and to the ground
Consign them still. Yet think me not too weak;
Come to me now, and thou shalt find me meek.
Then let us live in fellowship with thee,
And turn our red cheeks to thy kisses pale,
And listen to thy song as minstrelsy,
And still revere thee, till our heart’s throbs fail,
Sinking within thy arms, as sinks the sun
Beyond the farthest hills, when his day’s work is done.