No matter where his labours close:
No matter where his ashes lie:
A breath, the odour of the rose—
Will breathe about him from the sky.
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A gladsome sight it is to see,
In blossom thy mimosa tree.
Like golden moonlight doth it seem,
The moonlight of a heavenly dream;
A sunset lustre, chased and cold,
A pearly splendour, blent with gold;
That in its loveliness profound,
The waters have a mellower sound.
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A lovely sisterhood of nuns ye seem,
White-hooded, in your cloister of the snow;
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Stand out of the way, Old Time!
With your scythe and weary wing;
You, in this poverty-palace
No longer may reign as king.
Your symbol is shattered and rent;
Its pillar crumbled and strown;
So pitch elsewhere your tent,
And find you another throne.
They who have lost life’s trial,
By fortune beggared and shorn,
Care not for clock or dial,
Nor whether ’tis even or morn.
O, were there good in the future—
They here by the hour might watch;
Would hope come to the doorstep—
Or love lift up the latch.
They have had a visit from grief—
Have strayed in error’s den;
And find the cross and crown of thorns
The bitter portion of men.
They care not for the morrow—
They weary of to-day;
So break the dial that the hours
May blindly ebb away.
Death is a visiting justice,
Who will not his hour neglect;
Of all inspectors, the welcomest
That comes here to inspect.
Poor things! from life’s dread battle,
Persued by wind and wave—
They run unto death for safety,
And anchor fast by the grave.
The flowers are closing, and the few first stars
Are dimly twinkling in the deepening blue;
The dewy mist, that riseth from the river,
In crystal drops is beaded on the stems,
On the fresh leaves, and on the tinted flowers.
Few of the songs which cheered the open day,
Few, yet more loud, the evening cheer and charm.
No more the elephant beneath the shade
Reposeth, where the shadowy palm was cool;
No more the lion in the thicket lies,
Retired from noontide heat; the pard no more
Is, where the fountain gushed beside him couched;
The eagle, too, hath left his mountain home,
And with the lion will he share the prey.
Surely the eventide hath power to wake,
With its calm might in all things energy;
That thus all powerful natures are abroad,
Deserted thus, the eyrie and the lair.
The light that is a wanderer now departs,
Following its giver through the glorious west;
Following the faded crimson of the clouds.
Awake, O nightingale! voice of the night!
The melody of darkness body forth
The songs of loneliness. Now, mighty things
Of solemn mood are present; now, the earth
Is hushed to hear thy music; wake! awake!
Silence is sad until thy strain be heard.
Sing, that the river’s song be lost in thine,
And sigh of leaves, wind-stirred. Awake, that we
No more may deem we hear our beating hearts
Listening intense amid the nightfall’s hush.
The night in now thine auditor,—the stars
Lamps in thy temple of immortal song.
Sing! ’till thou only seemest in the world,
Stilling all life—all life by thee entranced—
Binding all souls in bands of ecstacy!
Fair is the dome of heaven; the stars intense
Burn in the blue, the blue without a cloud:
Dark is the earth, the heavens are clearly dark,
And leaves and flowers seem darkling of one hue,
Yet, beautiful is night! and silence here
In the awed soul stirs music; whilst the stars
Lead the free thoughts to follow in their track,
Paths to the throne of God; till the full heart
Pours forth its wealth in worship unconfined!
Rude railway-trains, with all your noise and smoke,
I love to see you wheresoe’er ye move;
Though nature seems such trespass to reprove,
Though ye the soul of old romance provoke,
I thank you that from misery ye unyoke
Thousands of panting horses. Science pleased,
Sees by machinery lungs and sinews eased,
And mercy smiles as suffering ye revoke.
Calm sanctities, deem not such march profane:
Sweet meads give up your flowers and emerald sod:
Small fields resign your being without pain:
For, thinking on old roads in anguish trod,
Not to the heart of nature can be vain
Humanity, which serves both man and God.
Lawns, shaven smooth; parterres all summer fair,
With rarest flowers from farthest regions brought:
Groves dedicate to friendship and sweet thought:
These, touched by railways, wither in despair,
Die in strong light, and the obtrusive air.
For gardens, crofts, old owners are distraught,
For cottages, home-hallowed, scorned as nought;
Leisure made public, and retirement bare.
Thank God it is so. Hence, in order due,
To countless blessings these distractions tend:
Good to the million, social gifts ensue:
The anxious lover, and the heart-warm friend,
Parents and children long-lost sweets renew,—
All quickly met, as ‘twere from the world’s end!