How awful when, along the way of truth,
With stealthy tread, the listening spirit comes; Doubt in her eye, thought on her brow of youth,
And undried tears dewing her cheek's soft blooms. Following afar the funeral train, that bear
Her life's-stay to the burial,-taught by woe,
She seeks some brooding presence in the air,
And asks if there be help above, below.
She starts the voice to hear,
That can her peace restore ;
Nor knows who stays the bier,
And bids her weep no more.
How calm before the spirit's tranquil gaze,
Strengthened by grief and joy, creation lies!
No lurking fears in its untrodden ways,
No wrecks upon its shores, mists in its skies!
So bright the sunshine, mild the shadows there,
They woo the spirit to a deep repose;
And if long-vanquished spectres still appear,
'Tis in a dream; they vanish at its close.
Then breaking from the throng,
Weeping, she goes in faith
To him whose word is strong
To burst the bands of death.
How holy, when the chequered day is o'er,
Heaven's splendors by the spirit else unseen!
Its orbs, in thrilling silence evermore
Winning their way amid the deep serene! How whispers echo, starting from the vault! How piercing are those myriad steadfast eyes! She dimly sees where winged armies halt,
To hail the eternal morn that soon must rise,
She haunts the hallowed tomb,
As breaks that holy day;
And angels, mid the gloom,
Chase all her cares away.
THOU mayst not mourn thy loneliness of soul.
What though the spirit, whose benign control
Was thy mind's strength and blessing, now be fled;
What though no voice, no token from the dead
Stills thy wild questionings, or helps thy prayers;
What though the thrilling thought no bosom shares,
Which uttered dies away; and gushing tears,
Whose source is hid, are still referred to fears,
And transient griefs thy soul has risen above;
What though the intensest fires of human love
Are back repressed, till heart and brain they burn;
Thy loneliness of soul thou mayst not mourn.
Each hope unshared that on thy soul recoils,
Its force concentred, prompts to nobler toils.
The intellectual glance, not lingering now
To meet response, discerns and pierces through,
Makes inquisition into things unknown,
And wins the world of being for thine own.
Nor shall thy love, though from its kindred rent,
Pine like a captive in his dungeon pent,
Waiting release, and destined still to wait:
Wide as the soul its growing powers dilate.
Embracing all, yet sacred still to one;
Living for all, yet dwelling still alone; -
Made strong thro' weakness, free thro' harsh control,
Thou mayst not mourn thy loneliness of soul.
Go to the grove where beechen shadows lie;
There hushed in thought, shrouded from human eye,
List while the winds, that traverse land and sea,
Whisper the tidings that they bring for thee:-
Tell thee where sister spirits mourn the dead;
How kindred hearts with thine have thrilled, have bled;
How some, e'en now, are glowing with a flame
Kindled like thine, for purposes the same,
To cheer the watch, to daunt a common foe;
Like signal fires on many a mountain's brow.
Rise from thy couch, to hail the midnight star,
And question what that eye beholds afar,
That thou mayst love and pray for. Now its beam
Falls on the brow, and mingles with the dream
Of some young sleeper smiling in his rest,
Or wearied pilgrim waiting to be blest.
Now the fixed gaze it meets of watchful sage,
Or with the lamp illumes the student's page;
Now, like the eye of God, it glances through
The guilty soul, and damps the hardened brow;
Or cheers the vigils, calms the sighing breath
Of love that hovers round the couch of death.
Thus winds and stars bring kindred to thy side.
If still for nobler sympathy thy pride,
'Midst heaven-fraught souls, aspire to claim a place,
Turn to the written records of thy race.
Where'er, in calm endurance, man has borne,
For holy cause, the frowns of kings, the scorn
Of multitudes; — where'er the scourge, the fire,
From souls that on their inward strength retire,
Nor abject prayers, nor wrath, nor groans have wrung;
Where'er the nerves of woman have been strung
Such strength to foster, and such pangs behold,
Such lot to share, lest heavenly love grow cold;
There mayst thou, if such links like souls may bind,
Communion hold with each immortal mind;
From saint to hero, chief to martyr, turn,
And in thy solitude forget to mourn.
There is a Presence- awful, yet most sweet,
Where all that's holy, holy things may greet.
There throng, unite, and dwell in commune free,
They that have been, that are, that yet shall be.
The eye may not behold, nor ear drink in,
The light, the music, breathing from within;
The grave may interpose, long ages roll,
And land and sea may sever soul from soul,
Yet in eternal union still they dwell;
The same love cheers, the same emotions swell.
Each impulse that the Will divine hath given,
Thrills from earth's lowest deep to highest heaven;
Love divine hath shed,
life to the dead;
Each influence that the
Gives beauty to all life
Beams from the sanctum of a common home,
And lights the path where thronging pilgrims come.
Conscious of that pervading Presence mild,
Blest with the freedom of a favored child,
Look round, while earthly shadows from thee roll,
And dream no more of loneliness of soul.
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