The Village
SWEET Village, bosomed in " ancestral trees, "
Naked and silent now — I love to come
When, in the summer time, a dubious hum
Floats from the valley on the evening breeze
But thou art ever pleasant; — with what ease
The Parsonage seems to nestle in its nook,
Wearing a calm and comfortable look,
With its bay-windows and quaint cornices!
How well the venerable Church agrees
With all the ancient features of the scene; —
The low, square tower, and through its ivy screen,
The dial, preaching quiet homilies!
But, hark! that bell proclaims some soul's release,
And calls my footsteps to the " Court of Peace! "
The Court of Peace! ay, verily, no strife
Of soul, heart, voice, comes this lone realm within;
All who were different in their mortal life,
Lofty or low, are equal here, and kin!
All passions quenched, the sources of their sin
Shut up and sealed for ever, here they lie,
Waiting — Oh! awful Mystery! — the din
Of the last trumpet-summons from on High!
Alas! with what dull thought and careless eye
We look upon these graves! as if the strain
Of glorious promise, uttered in the sky
By Angel-tongues, were fabulous and vain!
Brothers in Death! I leave you to your sleep,
So eloquently still, so solemn, and so deep!
Ho, ho! what rout is here? The Village Boys
In mimic warfare with their balls of snow,
Vociferating with triumphant noise,
As they o'ercome some temporary foe!
Poor, thoughtless imps! how soon ye must forego
This harmless conflict for a sterner strife
With Passion, Error, Circumstance, and Woe,
On the arena-ground of future life!
What tongue may tell, what prophecy foreshow
Your coming lot, the course of your career?
In intellect and virtue some may grow;
Some live in shame, and ignorance, and fear;
Sorrow may bow, danger encompass some; —
'Tis well for human peace we know not what's to come!
How shines this low-roofed shed beside the way,
Where the bluff Blacksmith holds his " pride of place! "
Roars the huge bellows, well-timed hammers play
On the responsive anvil's stubborn face;
Amid the shower of sparkles, idling stand
The Village Gossips, who delight to feel
The warmth that issues from the glowing steel,
And mark the cunning of the craftsman's hand.
He tells them tales of many a foreign scene,
Where battle raged, where blood was shed like rain,
Towns sacked and fields laid waste; for he had been
Soldier and farrier on the tented plain;
But now — far better than the work of wrong —
He fashions ploughshares, sings a peaceful song.
Naked and silent now — I love to come
When, in the summer time, a dubious hum
Floats from the valley on the evening breeze
But thou art ever pleasant; — with what ease
The Parsonage seems to nestle in its nook,
Wearing a calm and comfortable look,
With its bay-windows and quaint cornices!
How well the venerable Church agrees
With all the ancient features of the scene; —
The low, square tower, and through its ivy screen,
The dial, preaching quiet homilies!
But, hark! that bell proclaims some soul's release,
And calls my footsteps to the " Court of Peace! "
The Court of Peace! ay, verily, no strife
Of soul, heart, voice, comes this lone realm within;
All who were different in their mortal life,
Lofty or low, are equal here, and kin!
All passions quenched, the sources of their sin
Shut up and sealed for ever, here they lie,
Waiting — Oh! awful Mystery! — the din
Of the last trumpet-summons from on High!
Alas! with what dull thought and careless eye
We look upon these graves! as if the strain
Of glorious promise, uttered in the sky
By Angel-tongues, were fabulous and vain!
Brothers in Death! I leave you to your sleep,
So eloquently still, so solemn, and so deep!
Ho, ho! what rout is here? The Village Boys
In mimic warfare with their balls of snow,
Vociferating with triumphant noise,
As they o'ercome some temporary foe!
Poor, thoughtless imps! how soon ye must forego
This harmless conflict for a sterner strife
With Passion, Error, Circumstance, and Woe,
On the arena-ground of future life!
What tongue may tell, what prophecy foreshow
Your coming lot, the course of your career?
In intellect and virtue some may grow;
Some live in shame, and ignorance, and fear;
Sorrow may bow, danger encompass some; —
'Tis well for human peace we know not what's to come!
How shines this low-roofed shed beside the way,
Where the bluff Blacksmith holds his " pride of place! "
Roars the huge bellows, well-timed hammers play
On the responsive anvil's stubborn face;
Amid the shower of sparkles, idling stand
The Village Gossips, who delight to feel
The warmth that issues from the glowing steel,
And mark the cunning of the craftsman's hand.
He tells them tales of many a foreign scene,
Where battle raged, where blood was shed like rain,
Towns sacked and fields laid waste; for he had been
Soldier and farrier on the tented plain;
But now — far better than the work of wrong —
He fashions ploughshares, sings a peaceful song.
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