Come, I will sit me down and meditate, For I am wearied with my summer's walk; And here I may repose in silent ease;
And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,
My harass'd soul, in this same spot, may find
The haven of its rest-beneath this sod
Perchance it may sleep sweetly, sound as death.
I would not have my corpse cemented down
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor earth-worm
Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie
Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown,
Swathed down with osiers, just as sleep the cottiers.
Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;
But there at eve may some congenial soul
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear,
The good man's benison-no more I ask.
And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down
From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit,
Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,
The earth), then will I cast a glance below,
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;
And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine
In this low-thoughted world of darkling woe,
But that, ere long, he reach his kindred skies.
Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body,
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery,
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond
His narrow verge of being, and provide
A decent residence for its clayey shell,
Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay
His body in the city burial-place,
To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,
And yield its narrow house another tenant,
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?
No, I will lay me in the village ground;
There are the dead respected. The poor hind,
Unlettered as he is, would scorn t' invade
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen
The labourer, returning from his toil,
Here stay his steps, and call his children round,
And slowly spell the rudely sculptured rhymes,
And, in his rustic manner, moralize.
I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,
And all the honours which he paid the grave,
And thought on cities, where even cemeteries,
Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,
Are not protected from the drunken insolence
Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.
Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!
Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones
May lie or in the city's crowded bounds,
Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,
Or left a prey on some deserted shore
To the rapacious cormorant,-yet still,
(For why should sober reason cast away
A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit
Shall wing its way to these my native regions,
And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think
Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew
In solemn rumination; and will smile
With joy that I have got my long'd release.
THE CHRISTIAD. A DIVINE POEM.
I SING the Cross!-Ye white-robed angel choirs,
Who know the chords of harmony to sweep,
Ye, who o'er holy David's varying wires
Were wont, of old, your hovering watch to keep, Oh, now descend! and with your harpings deep Pouring sublime the full symphonious stream
Of music, such as soothes the saint's last sleep, Awake my slumbering spirit from its dream, And teach me how to exalt the high mysterious theme. Mourn! Salem, mourn! low lies thine humbled state, Thy glittering fanes are levell'd with the ground! Fallen is thy pride!-Thine halls are desolate! Where erst was heard the timbrel's sprightly sound, And frolic pleasures tripp'd the nightly round, There breeds the wild fox lonely,-and aghast
Stands the mute pilgrim at the void profound, Unbroke by noise, save when the hurrying blast Sighs, like a spirit, deep along the cheerless waste. It is for this, proud Solyma! thy towers
Lie crumbling in the dust; for this forlorn Thy genius wails along thy desert bowers, While stern Destruction laughs, as if in scorn, That thou didst dare insult God's eldest born; And, with most bitter persecuting ire,
Pursued his footsteps till the last day-dawn Rose on his fortunes-and thou saw'st the fire That came to light the world, in one great flash expire. Oh! for a pencil dipp'd in living light,
To paint the agonies that Jesus bore!
Oh! for the long-lost harp of Jesse's might,
To hymn the Saviour's praise from shore to shore;
While seraph hosts the lofty pean pour,
And Heaven enraptured lists the loud acclaim!
May a frail mortal dare the theme explore?
May he to human ears his weak song frame?
Oh! may he dare to sing Messiah's glorious name?
Spirits of pity! mild Crusaders, come!
Buoyant on clouds around your minstrel float,
And give him eloquence who else were dumb,
And raise to feeling and to fire his note!
And thou, Urania! who dost still devote
Thy nights and days to God's eternal shrine,
Whose mild eyes 'lumined what Isaiah wrote,
Throw o'er thy Bard that solemn stole of thine,
And clothe him for the fight with energy divine.
When from the temple's lofty summit prone,
Satan o'ercome, fell down; and throned there,
The Son of God confess'd, in splendour shone;
Swift as the glancing sunbeam cuts the air,
Mad with defeat, and yelling his despair,
Fled the stern king of Hell-and with the glare
Of gliding meteors, ominous and red,
Shot athwart the clouds that gather'd round his head.
Right o'er the Euxine, and that gulf which late
The rude Massagetæ adored, he bent
His northering course, while round, in dusky state,
The assembling fiends their summon'd troops aug-
Clothed in dark mists, upon their way they went, While, as they pass'd to regions more severe,
The Lapland sorcerer swell'd with loud lament The solitary gale, and, fill'd with fear,
The howling dogs bespoke unholy spirits near.
Where the North Pole, in moody solitude, Spreads her huge tracks and frozen wastes around, There ice-rocks piled aloft, in order rude, Form a gigantic hall, where never sound Startled dull Silence' ear, save when profound The smoke-frost mutter'd: there drear Cold for aye Thrones him,—and, fix'd on his primeval mound, Ruin, the giant, sits; while stern Dismay Stalks like some woe-struck man along the desert way.
In that drear spot, grim Desolation's lair,
No sweet remain of life encheers the sight; The dancing heart's blood in an instant there Would freeze to marble.-Mingling day and night (Sweet interchange, which makes our labours light), Are there unknown; while in the summer skies
The sun rolls ceaseless round his heavenly height, Nor ever sets, till from the scene he flies,
And leaves the long bleak night of half the year to
'Twas there, yet shuddering from the burning lake, Satan had fix'd their next consistory,
When parting last he fondly hoped to shake
Messiah's constancy,-and thus to free
The powers of darkness from the dread decree
Of bondage brought by him, and circumvent
The unerring ways of Him whose eye can see
The womb of Time, and, in its embryo pent,
Discern the colours clear of
every dark event.
Here the stern monarch stay'd his rapid flight,
And his thick hosts, as with a jetty pall,
Hovering obscured the north star's peaceful light,
Waiting on wing their haughty chieftain's call.
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