Classic Poem

WRITTEN IN BEDDINGTON CHURCHYARD

I stand upon the sod must lie on me,
Ere yon red rose in odour shall expire;
I think upon the time that soon shall be
When my soul mingles with immortal fire.

I muse on my new kindred of the tomb,
Brothers and sisters I must shortly know;
Few, few the hours, and fleet, ere I become
One of the pale society below!

Another Sabbath, and this sacred tower
Shall, in deep words, have tolled — his course is done!
Another Moon shall look into my bower,
And weeping lucid tears, say — he is gone!

Gone, where the proud are lowly as the meek,
Where simple ones are subtle as the sage,
Gone, where the strong are feeble as the weak,
Where rank no right, power has no privilege.

Where wealth is stripped as bare as wretchedness,
And Tyranny is fettered like his slave,
Where Beauty weeps her strange unloveliness,
Where Eloquence is dumb, and Folly grave.

Six foot of common, caitiff-making earth,
Often much less, and very seldom more,
Encompasses within its narrow girth,
Him whom a world could scarce contain before!

Ev'n on a spot as small — perchance as green, —
As this where I shall rest in un renown,
The Conqueror of half the poles between,
Must lay himself and all his glory down.

Lone in the far Atlantic Isle he sleeps,
The modern Charlemagne, but mightier still;
A wretched willow o'er his tombstone weeps,
And round it mourns a miserable rill.

Upon his desolate couch the Homeless Star
Looks with a sympathetic sister eye;
As if she breathed these pitying words afar,
Outcast of Earth art thou, of Heaven, I!

The Wind-God haunting that sepulchral hill,
Pipes a wild coronach around the grave;
But none are there with martial voice to fill
His own loved trumpet o'er the buried brave.

There sleeps he, most forlorn, — almost forgot, —
In a drear Island, distant o'er the foam,
Here shall I sleep, laid in this quiet spot,
And find how sweet, in death itself, is Home!

Close by the foot of this gray Abbey wall,
Where leans the buttress that is leant upon,
(Like old companions fearing both to fall,
Each with its shoulder props the other one:)

Here would I wish my final bed of rest,
Tranquil and sheltry, ivy-overgrown,
With a green pall to spread upon my breast,
This is the spot I've fixed on as my own.

The dewy-throated nightingale sings here
Till midnight blends complexions with the morn;
And robin, in his crimson stomacher,
Sits challenging the woods on yonder thorn.

Circling around, the turret-swallow stoops
With sweet, weak whistle to salute her young;
Here, from their evening feast the crows in troops,
Come with hoarse music heavily along.

Now that her dusky robe the Night unfolds,
Thro' its light gauze wanders the aimless fly,
Homeward the bee her steady passage holds,
The stumbling beetle booms him headlong by.

Now from beneath the ivy-woven cowl,
Muffling the head of each tall pinnacle,
With solemn whirr comes forth the moody owl,
And flickering bat which loves the gloom as well.

How calm! how still! — nor is the glare of day,
Less sobered by the shadow of the pile,
It seems to frown the sun's rude light away,
And tempers ev'n the Moon's most pallid smile.

Sweet village church! — remote from village strife,
Yet still to home and heart's affection near,
If here so peaceful be the dream of life,
How peaceful must the sleep of death be here!

O let the proud, the wealthy, and the great,
Where huge cathedrals ope the venal choir,
Beneath their vain mausolea lie in state,
Give me a grave beneath the village spire!