Classic Poem

But little heeding where I laid me down, —
For I was worn to weariness by toil
Of a long day of travel in the sun;
I threw myself beneath the thicket's shade,
'Mongst the long grasses of a gentle slope,
And slept unconscious. At my waking, said
My father, who had sate and watch'd the while,
" Thou little know'st what couch hath given thee rest,
Or what thy pillow! " Then I look'd, and found
My form had rested on a Christian grave,
The mouldering cross of wood, beneath mine arm,
Drawn easily down, by motion of my hand,
From its old station at the hillock's head.

" Thou marvell'st, " said he, " at a Christian grave,
Here, in this heathen wilderness; — but where
Plants not the foe his trophies? All the earth
Is but Death's garden, where he drills and sows,
That God may find the reapers in his time.
He follows not his craft alone where crowds
Gather for living purposes, — where Pride
Erects his idle palace; and the route
Of Folly, school'd against austerity,
As having not the soul for sad delights,
Meet in licentious revel. But even here,
Where the deer stalk in safety, and the wild,
Unrifled of its rich virginity,
Is glad with simple nature, as at first,
Here, Death hath rear'd his melancholy shrine,
And the slight hillock which hath made thy couch,
Gives proof that he hath claim'd his sacrifice,
Relentless in pursuit as fell in power,
And monarch equally o'er time and place,
The wilderness as city, poor as proud,
Hath bade life render up his trembling staff,
And, like some outlaw, reckless of accompt,
Hath eased him of his burden.

" Shall we ask —
What were thy fortunes, sleeper? — In what part,
Native or foreign, of earth's wilderness,
Didst thou begin thy journey? Was thy life,
Honor'd by gifts of goodness — smear'd by guilt —
Baffled by fortune — hard beset with foes;
Or, cast away in thine own recklessness,
By profligate waste of days?

" All in vain,
This idle quest — yet not to virtue vain,
If, from thy grave, an upward voice might rise,
To give us answer. Nothing may we know
From thy seal'd lips and silent dwelling-place! —
My own blood may have circled in thy heart,
Yet know I naught of thee, and cannot know.

" Yet may the general aspect of thy lot
Be traced in this thy sepulchre! Thy thought
Was one that kept thee sleepless. Thou hast hoped,
With an unyielding, vexing discontent,
For wealth and honors; those delusive gauds,
That dazzle the best eyes, and still defeat
The wisest aims of greatness! — or hast sinned
Beyond forgiveness of thy fellow. God,
The prince of infinite power, if thou hast pray'd,
Will grant what man denied thee. Thou hast striven
Against thy neighbor's greatness. Thou hast dared
Be bold against him, when the power was his
To crush thee with a finger. Thou hast fled
His keen pursuit of vengeance, and the doom
Of exile hath been writ against thy name,
Being thy moral death: — the rest is here!

" I read the story of thy folly here —
Thy folly in thy fortunes. Thou hast wrong'd
Thy fellow, in denying him thy trust! —
Thy nature ask'd for confidence — its laws
Commanded thy dependence. Thou wast bade
Be humble in thine aim, and love thy kind,
Even when it wrong'd thee. Hast thou yielded love,
Or trust, to him that sought it? Didst thou yield
Meet deference to thy betters — to the wise,
Having the nation's rule? Or didst thou shake
Thy bold hand in defiance, and depart,
Calling down vengeance in red bolts from heaven.
To do thee justice in consuming flame?
Would thou couldst answer! It may be, thy tale
Were of the world's injustice — the worse wrong,
That of the many striving 'gainst the one.
Thou couldst unfold a grievance which should bring
A pang to hearts of honor — a cold sweat
On brows, that feel thy argument was theirs —
Thy cause, the cause of freedom. He who stands,
As I, above thy forest-shelter'd sleep,
May read a story in thy dwelling-place.
Thy steps were from thy home of many hours,
From time of youth's first blossoming. Thy grief —
The grief which stretch'd thee on the bed of death —
Came with thy exile. Thou wast banish'd all —
And death that met thee, was a comforter,
To guide thee to a dwelling, and prepare
A couch, and give thee shelter from the night,
Fast coming on, and storm that follow'd close —
Pursuing thee as still the storm pursues
The banish'd and unfriended. Thou hast sunk
To thy last sleep, untroubled by the cares
That throng about the city bed of death —
No idle tramp of men hath follow'd thee;
A hurried hand — perchance a thoughtless heart —
Hath scoop'd thee out a grave some three feet deep,
And left thee in the solitude to God!
" The heart hath better hopes. Humanity
Springs up beside the pathway, like a flower
That takes the blankness from the wilderness,
And sweetens its bleak waters. I have hope
Thou wert not all untended at the last.
Some hand hath smooth'd thy pillow when disease
Kept thee awake through the long dreary night.
Thy birth had friends and parents. Childhood came,
And brought with it a livelier fellowship;
And boyhood gave thee sympathy and sport.
And were there none of all thy fellowships —
Was there no parent in thy last sad hour,
Nor she thou lov'dst in childhood — nor the boy,
Who mated out with thee in roguish play,
The measure of thy laughing pranks erewhile,
Beside thee, when thou groan'dst in agony?
And, in the trying moment, when earth reel'd
Around thee, and the skies began to fade,
And darkness fill'd thy chamber, and gaunt death
Dragged thee about and wrestled with thy frame,
Already overborne — and hurl'd thee down
Never to rise — was it a friend long tried
Who decently composed thy stiffen'd limbs,
And spread thy pall above thee; or strange men
Whom thou hadst never seen, and couldst not see,
To whom thy fortune; most unnatural,
Gave up this mournful office? Did they take
Thy frame, and scooping out a shallow bed,
That gave thee scarce a shelter from the rain,
Consign thee, with a word, unto thy tomb —
With vague conjecture scanning all the while
Thy hopes, thy fortune and thy loneliness?
Had all deserted thee that loved before?
Or was it that thou, in wilfulness of mood,
Self-banish'd, fled the many who had loved,
Deplore thy error still and weep thy loss?
Did none come near to give thee medicine,
Or smooth thy pillow down, support thy head,
Watch by thy midnight couch, and still attend,
With that officious tenderness and zeal,
Which makes the patient smile through every pang,
And bless the malady, however deep,
That brings along with it such pleasant cares?

" And all that infancy and boyhood brought —
Mother and mistress — schoolmate, brother, friend —
Thy fortune took from thee, when most their cares
Had sweeten'd all thy sorrows! Such was not
Thy feeling, when in manhood's health and strength,
Thou fled'st from the great city, with a pride
That made thy errors look like nobleness,
And kept thee in them. In that hour of death,
Feeble and prostrate, what a mockery seem'd
That spirit-exulting, which had led thee forth
Into self-written exile! Thy faint heart
Pray'd then for that humility — that hope —
Thou didst reject in thy vain hour of strength;
And thou hadst given the torturing pride of years,
That fed upon thy heart, and all its hopes,
For one poor hour of love — for those sweet smiles
Of her whose heart look'd out from tearful eyes,
Still hoping for thy soon return yet sad,
As with a mournful presage of thy fate.

" That fate, perchance, she shared. She fled with thee,
Blind to thy errors, to thy vices blind,
Flying from all beside, and glad to own
A dwelling in thy heart — a lone abode,
Where thou couldst love her. Thou didst build her cot
Beside you thicket, near you rippling brook,
And rear'd the jasmine round her cottage door,
And train'd the wild vine o'er it. Thou wast blest,
Deep in the forest, happy in the all,
Rich in the little spoil thou robb'dst from man.

" And where is she? Thy dwelling-place is lone,
The cot in ruins, and the tangled vine
A thicket where the yellow serpent lurks,
And the green lizard glides. Where is the bird
That made thy cottage beautiful — that sooth'd
The desert to thine eye, and fill'd thy heart
With such abundance of her treasured sweet,
That man's hate grew forgotten in her love?

" She did not perish when she saw thee die,
Else had they made her grave where thou art laid,
And that were merciful. No flower is here
Which she hath planted; and the weeds have grown,
Untended, like thy fortunes, thorny and wild,
Meet emblem of thy fate. Methinks,
If there was nothing sweet to bless thy days, —
If youth had no enjoyment — childhood no friend —
Manhood no home — the love of country naught,
To make a venerated shrine a charm,
More sweet to age than all the joys of youth —
If but affliction clung to thee through all —
It had not been a misplaced charity
Of her, or the sad seasons, to have left
One flower above thy grave, poor desolate! "