Change of scene the picture opened, changed as when the eye beholds
Azure air's clear forehead hidden; when the bearded cloud enfolds
Hill and valley, where the tempest on the misty mountains stands;
At his feet the thunder breaking, the hot lightning in his hands.
As a Spirit, from the realms of light descended, treads on earth,
Mindful of remembered glories, of a heaven's anterior birth,
Stood the Pilgrim, home-embosomed in his northern cloud-wrapped clime,
Where his hills of crag and heather reared in mist their heads sublime.
Tongueless but oracular altars, where grey earth confession made
How the Ocean swept above her in wild fluctuation stayed,
Where each sullen granite summit heaves abrupt its foam-like crest,
Stopped in rolling, image petrified of restlessness in rest.
But the mind itself impresses on the forms it hallows, giving
Power and majesty they have not, lights in our reflection living:
In stern mountain forms repellent, in the strength that mocks control,
Dwells a spirit and a feeling that doth concentrate the soul.
He returned to his loved country, to the homestead where he dwelt,
As a brother to his kindred, their one trunk ancestral felt;
Faiths and trusts in him confided, and confession that, resigned,
Leaves the heart, its weight of sorrow to a human ear consigned.
He had struck the chords of passion and of thought; his record hung
Leaf-like on life's tree to flourish, or to earth by tempest flung.
But, by watchful Truth if gathered from the dust, to be enrolled
With her deathless scrolls remembered when the hand that waked was cold.
In him the immortal yearning was no idle lust of fame,
To trace out in feverish blazon above lesser lights a name;
No vain effort his to impress upon memory's transient breath
Personal life, or name, or glory of the laurel's withering wreath;
But the heart of man to open, and its hidden thought disclose,
The still depths of passion fathom slumbering in its dark repose:
These he would confess, contented so the song with memory twined,
Welcomed as a friend and echoed from the heart of human kind.
Then the Pilgrim turned from visions to the present, and he saw
How, from life material symbolled, Nature shadowed forth her law.
At his feet the red leaves withered, beauty hallowing their decay;
Dried the fountain-source beside him, the light current lapsed away,
But the emerald grasses brightened there of an unfading green,
From the dews their strength infusing through their thrilling veins unseen;
Stern that steadfast rock and lonely, but his spirit felt the trace
Stamped of power and endurance on its everlasting face.
‘O you leaves of beauty flowering from the roots that perish not,
Your breath is supporting ether, your life is with nature wrought;
And, deserted fount! your current to the unknown deep is sped,
But the flowers by you created from your vital streams were fed.
And, while blessing your pure being, on your faces while I look
I behold myself reflected as in nature's opened book,
Those seared leaves are days departed, once in spring-time green and pure,
And that fountain-source my boyhood, too abounding to endure;
And my lays those grasses living from the breath in them infused
Of a spirit too much loving that perchance itself accused;
That neglected colder duties which convention's life adorn,
For the yearnings growing with him, the one passion in him born.
And thou rock! austerely rising in grey solitude, thou art
The great symbol of the poet's own unconquerable heart.
So staid purpose mocks the changeful; so he concentrates his thought,
With the forms of power and beauty, or remembered or forgot.’
Thus the old Man's lay hath ended;
And the latest notes have blended
With the air; but whither fled
Is he who rested here awhile?
He who lived upon the eye
Of affectionate memory,
With his mien subdued, and head
Bent with thought and earnest brow?
He who could an hour beguile,
As through threaded mazes ran
Of his life, he dared avow,
Childlike, all the worldlier man
Doth within his breast withhold,
Until conscience' voice controlled,
He walks toward his grave a thing
Of convention's imaging;
With a heart by usage dried;
Truth from all but One to hide.
Not thus passed away unmoved
That confiding Man who loved
To tell all that he had been,
Since he grew the child of time,
With a faith that was sublime;
And a truth that would not hide
Flaws grave wisdom might deride;
All he felt, and all he proved,
Hoped, mistrusted, shunned, or loved.
You may search the green earth through,
Nor find that old Man you knew:
You will not hear his voice again;
You must unto him depart,
For he walks no more with men.
The neglect that wastes the heart,
Withering the growths of hope;
The faith mighty, that could cope
Through a life against despair,
Sleeplessly contending there;
The forgetfulness that falls
Dropping, ice-like, from the walls
Of its prison, till the flame
Answerless and dead became,—
These are felt by him no more;
Life's last coil with him is o'er.
He is sleeping, he is dead,
That old Man confiding; sped
All his hopes that once dared claim
Memory, as one who feels
Truth he to himself reveals;
As a seer who knew the fire
That should light his funeral-pyre,
And rise heavenward from the sod
Was a glory drawn from God.
Never more shall he aspire,
He whose days were aspiration,
For the pure, and great, and good,
Shadows of his own creation;
The world heard him not subdued
That Man of retiring mood,
Who, unsought, would not intrude
On the paths where others stood.
His Voice like the wind went forth
That finds no resting-place on earth;
As the minster's distant hymn,
Heard through depths of forests dim,
Blending with the breeze a tone
Of harmony till made its own.
So that old Man passed away:
In the churchyard green he lay;
O'er his turf the daisies grew,
The wild thyme its fragrance threw
There, as if the dead beneath
Could awake, and bless its breath.
But no ponderous stone weighed on
His poor dust when he was gone;
For he said, expiring laid,
While low voices round him prayed,
And Death stood beside the door
Ere he crossed the darkened floor:—
‘Let no tomb above me press,
Shutting out the loveliness
Of great Nature;—let the sun
Shine upon my grassy bed;
When the blessed day is done,
There its latest ray be shed!
So the elements that warmed
This material life transformed,
To the surface raised shall be,
Mingled with the flowers and air,
And the light rejoicing there;
But my chainless spirit flee
Into God's infinity.
‘Raise a headstone from the grass;
Grave thereon the word—“A LAS !”
To record a mortal thing
Rests beneath from suffering;
To attest the grief of one
Who left needful things undone;
Yet who wasted not the sands
Of our holy life, if we
May dare boast of aught, or show
Aught of good may from us grow,
Sown but by our human hands.
For it was to him the strife
Of a spirit that desired
Ever an immortal life,
In the song by truth inspired;
To be heard perchance when he
Rested, the ordeal passed:
That had then far pilgrims brought
From the east and west, to cast
Records o'er a tomb unsought;
Of a Man who left such trace
As the waves might not efface;
Of a Poet crowned at last,
By hands that withheld the wreath
Until placed o'er dust beneath.’
Azure air's clear forehead hidden; when the bearded cloud enfolds
Hill and valley, where the tempest on the misty mountains stands;
At his feet the thunder breaking, the hot lightning in his hands.
As a Spirit, from the realms of light descended, treads on earth,
Mindful of remembered glories, of a heaven's anterior birth,
Stood the Pilgrim, home-embosomed in his northern cloud-wrapped clime,
Where his hills of crag and heather reared in mist their heads sublime.
Tongueless but oracular altars, where grey earth confession made
How the Ocean swept above her in wild fluctuation stayed,
Where each sullen granite summit heaves abrupt its foam-like crest,
Stopped in rolling, image petrified of restlessness in rest.
But the mind itself impresses on the forms it hallows, giving
Power and majesty they have not, lights in our reflection living:
In stern mountain forms repellent, in the strength that mocks control,
Dwells a spirit and a feeling that doth concentrate the soul.
He returned to his loved country, to the homestead where he dwelt,
As a brother to his kindred, their one trunk ancestral felt;
Faiths and trusts in him confided, and confession that, resigned,
Leaves the heart, its weight of sorrow to a human ear consigned.
He had struck the chords of passion and of thought; his record hung
Leaf-like on life's tree to flourish, or to earth by tempest flung.
But, by watchful Truth if gathered from the dust, to be enrolled
With her deathless scrolls remembered when the hand that waked was cold.
In him the immortal yearning was no idle lust of fame,
To trace out in feverish blazon above lesser lights a name;
No vain effort his to impress upon memory's transient breath
Personal life, or name, or glory of the laurel's withering wreath;
But the heart of man to open, and its hidden thought disclose,
The still depths of passion fathom slumbering in its dark repose:
These he would confess, contented so the song with memory twined,
Welcomed as a friend and echoed from the heart of human kind.
Then the Pilgrim turned from visions to the present, and he saw
How, from life material symbolled, Nature shadowed forth her law.
At his feet the red leaves withered, beauty hallowing their decay;
Dried the fountain-source beside him, the light current lapsed away,
But the emerald grasses brightened there of an unfading green,
From the dews their strength infusing through their thrilling veins unseen;
Stern that steadfast rock and lonely, but his spirit felt the trace
Stamped of power and endurance on its everlasting face.
‘O you leaves of beauty flowering from the roots that perish not,
Your breath is supporting ether, your life is with nature wrought;
And, deserted fount! your current to the unknown deep is sped,
But the flowers by you created from your vital streams were fed.
And, while blessing your pure being, on your faces while I look
I behold myself reflected as in nature's opened book,
Those seared leaves are days departed, once in spring-time green and pure,
And that fountain-source my boyhood, too abounding to endure;
And my lays those grasses living from the breath in them infused
Of a spirit too much loving that perchance itself accused;
That neglected colder duties which convention's life adorn,
For the yearnings growing with him, the one passion in him born.
And thou rock! austerely rising in grey solitude, thou art
The great symbol of the poet's own unconquerable heart.
So staid purpose mocks the changeful; so he concentrates his thought,
With the forms of power and beauty, or remembered or forgot.’
Thus the old Man's lay hath ended;
And the latest notes have blended
With the air; but whither fled
Is he who rested here awhile?
He who lived upon the eye
Of affectionate memory,
With his mien subdued, and head
Bent with thought and earnest brow?
He who could an hour beguile,
As through threaded mazes ran
Of his life, he dared avow,
Childlike, all the worldlier man
Doth within his breast withhold,
Until conscience' voice controlled,
He walks toward his grave a thing
Of convention's imaging;
With a heart by usage dried;
Truth from all but One to hide.
Not thus passed away unmoved
That confiding Man who loved
To tell all that he had been,
Since he grew the child of time,
With a faith that was sublime;
And a truth that would not hide
Flaws grave wisdom might deride;
All he felt, and all he proved,
Hoped, mistrusted, shunned, or loved.
You may search the green earth through,
Nor find that old Man you knew:
You will not hear his voice again;
You must unto him depart,
For he walks no more with men.
The neglect that wastes the heart,
Withering the growths of hope;
The faith mighty, that could cope
Through a life against despair,
Sleeplessly contending there;
The forgetfulness that falls
Dropping, ice-like, from the walls
Of its prison, till the flame
Answerless and dead became,—
These are felt by him no more;
Life's last coil with him is o'er.
He is sleeping, he is dead,
That old Man confiding; sped
All his hopes that once dared claim
Memory, as one who feels
Truth he to himself reveals;
As a seer who knew the fire
That should light his funeral-pyre,
And rise heavenward from the sod
Was a glory drawn from God.
Never more shall he aspire,
He whose days were aspiration,
For the pure, and great, and good,
Shadows of his own creation;
The world heard him not subdued
That Man of retiring mood,
Who, unsought, would not intrude
On the paths where others stood.
His Voice like the wind went forth
That finds no resting-place on earth;
As the minster's distant hymn,
Heard through depths of forests dim,
Blending with the breeze a tone
Of harmony till made its own.
So that old Man passed away:
In the churchyard green he lay;
O'er his turf the daisies grew,
The wild thyme its fragrance threw
There, as if the dead beneath
Could awake, and bless its breath.
But no ponderous stone weighed on
His poor dust when he was gone;
For he said, expiring laid,
While low voices round him prayed,
And Death stood beside the door
Ere he crossed the darkened floor:—
‘Let no tomb above me press,
Shutting out the loveliness
Of great Nature;—let the sun
Shine upon my grassy bed;
When the blessed day is done,
There its latest ray be shed!
So the elements that warmed
This material life transformed,
To the surface raised shall be,
Mingled with the flowers and air,
And the light rejoicing there;
But my chainless spirit flee
Into God's infinity.
‘Raise a headstone from the grass;
Grave thereon the word—“A LAS !”
To record a mortal thing
Rests beneath from suffering;
To attest the grief of one
Who left needful things undone;
Yet who wasted not the sands
Of our holy life, if we
May dare boast of aught, or show
Aught of good may from us grow,
Sown but by our human hands.
For it was to him the strife
Of a spirit that desired
Ever an immortal life,
In the song by truth inspired;
To be heard perchance when he
Rested, the ordeal passed:
That had then far pilgrims brought
From the east and west, to cast
Records o'er a tomb unsought;
Of a Man who left such trace
As the waves might not efface;
Of a Poet crowned at last,
By hands that withheld the wreath
Until placed o'er dust beneath.’