Classic Poem

THE Last C OMMUNION .

I MAY not chafe thy weary temple,
 I may not kiss thy dear pale face;
But spirit answereth to spirit,
 And loving thought o'erleapeth space.

And thus within thy far sick-chamber
 Mine heart communion holds with thine,
I see the kneeling kindred gather,
 The broken bread, the hallow'd wine.

Hush, heaving sigh! Hush, murmur'd whisper!
 Swell forth, ye words of love and dread!
“Take, eat, His life for you was given;
 Drink ye; His blood for you was shed!”

Dim grows thy dark eye, kneeling mother,
 There's anguish on thy bended brow;
Ay, weep, there come no second flowers
 When Autumn strips the laden bough.

O broken spirit, meek-eyed creature,
 Well may thy brimming eyes run o'er,
Since yet a darker drop may mingle
 Within the cup so full before!

And thou, too, honour'd one and cherish'd,
 Most happy wife and mother blest,
There comes a cloud o'er thy pure heaven
 Which not the brightness of the rest,

Which not even his dear love who kneeleth
 Close at thy side can banish quite;
For stars that have an equal lustre
 Yet shine not with each other's light.

Come, gentle nurse, come, fair young sisters,
 Draw closer still the narrowing chain,
Another golden link must sever,
 Ye cannot commune thus again.

Once more, once more—death's deepening shadow
 Broods o'er our little field of light,
Ere yet the heavy cloud is scatter'd
 That wrapp'd our fairest from our sight,

Whom, as we linger by thy pillow,
 Dear saint, in look, in smile, in tone,
We trace again, like skies reflecting
 The sunlight when the sun is gone.

Still swells the Eucharistic measure,
 The feast of love and life is o'er,
The angels joining, and archangels,
 And saints who rest and sin no more.

Ah! not at Christ's own altar kneeling,
 Our hearts should thrill, our eyes grow dim,
As though we had not known His presence,
 And were not ever one in Him.

The dead—they are the truly living,
 They live to God, to love, to us;
Why should the prescience of brief parting
 Sadden the Christian spirit thus?

Nay, gently lay her on His bosom,—
 Nay, gladly give her to His care,
Lest we forget in our own sorrow
 How bright the crown His ransom'd wear.