GOD'S-ACRE.

Can I call that home where I anchor yet,
Though my good-man has sailed ?

Can I call that home where my nest was set,
Now all its hope hath failed?

Nay, but the port where my sailor went,

And the land where my nestlings be:

There is the home where my thoughts are sent,
The only home for me —

247

Ah me!

JEAN INGELOW.

I

God's-Acre.

LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessèd name imparts

Comfort to those who in the grave have sown The seed that they had garnered in their hearts, Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,
In the fair gardens of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

Lovely stars are gleaming,
Bearded lights are streaming,
And glorious suns are beaming
On, forever on.

As lovely eyes were gleaming,
As wondrous lights were streaming,
And as glorious minds were beaming
On, forever on;

But there has been soul-sundering,
Wailing, and sad wondering;

For graves grow fat with plundering The gone, forever gone!

We see great eagles soaring,
We hear deep oceans roaring,
And sparkling fountains pouring

On, forever on.

As lofty minds were soaring,

As sonorous voices roaring,

And as sparkling wits were pouring

On, forever on;

DEATH'S FINAL CONQUEST.

But pinions have been shedding,
And voiceless darkness spreading,
Since a measure Death 's been treading
O'er the gone, forever gone!

Everything is sundering,

Every one is wondering,

And this huge globe goes thundering
On, forever on;

But 'mid this weary sundering,
Heart-breaking, and sad wondering,
And this huge globe's rude thundering
On, forever on,

I would that I were dreaming
Where little flowers are gleaming,
And the long green grass is streaming
O'er the gone, forever gone!

249

WILLIAM MOTHERWELL.

Death's Final Conquest.

THE glories of our birth and state

Are shadows, not substantial things;

There is no armor against fate:

Death lays his icy hand on kings.

Sceptre and crown

Must tumble down,

And in the dust be equal made

With the poor crooked scythe and spade.

Some men with swords may reap the field,

And plant with laurels where they kill; But their strong nerves at last must yield, They tame but one another still;

Early or late,

They stoop to fate,

And must give up their murmuring breath,
When they, pale captives! creep to death.

The garlands wither on your brow ;

Then boast no more your mighty deeds;
Upon death's purple altar, now,

See where the victor victim bleeds!
All heads must come

To the cold tomb,

Only the actions of the just

Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.

JAMES SHIRLEY.

The Two Villages.

OVER the river on the hill

Lieth a village white and still;

All around it the forest trees
Shiver and whisper in the breeze;
Over it sailing shadows go

Of soaring hawk and screaming crow;
And mountain grasses, low and sweet,
Grow in the middle of every street.

Over the river under the hill
Another village lieth still;
There I see in the cooling night
Twinkling stars of household light,
Fires that gleam from smithy's door,
Mists that curl on the river's shore;
And in the road no grasses grow,
For the wheels that hasten to and fro.

GOD'S-ACRE.

In that village on the hill

Never is sound of smithy or mill;

The houses are thatched with grass and flowers,

Never a clock to tell the hours;

The marble doors are always shut;

You may not enter at hall or hut.
All the village lie asleep,
Never a grain to sow or reap;
Never in dreams to moan or sigh
Silent, and idle, and low, they lie.

In that village under the hill,
When the night is starry and still,
Many a weary soul in prayer
Looks to the other village there,
And weeping and sighing, longs to go
Up to that home from this below;
Longs to sleep by the forest wild,
Whither have vanished wife and child,
And heareth, praying, the answer fall,
"Patience! That village shall hold

ye all!"

251

ROSE TERRY COOKE.

God's-Acre.

PEACEABLE folk hid under the earth,
How quiet you are to-day!

I came to look in on your noiseless court,
And am loath to go away.

What it is holds me I cannot tell,
Or hardly why I should come;
For, whatever I do, you heed me not,
Whatever I ask, you are dumb.