Poems About Death

As these white robes are soil’d and dark, To yonder shining ground;As this pale taper’s earthly spark, To yonder argent round;So shows my soul before the Lamb, My spirit before Thee;So in mine earthly house I am, To that I hope to be.Break up the heavens, O Lord! and far, Thro’ all yon starlight keen,Draw me, thy bride, a glittering star, In raiment white and clean.

He lifts me to the golden doors; The flashes come and go;All heaven bursts her starry floors, And strows her lights below,And deepens on and up! the gates Roll back, and far withinFor me the Heavenly Bridegroom waits, To make me pure of sin.The sabbaths of Eternity, One sabbath deep and wide--A light upon the shining sea-- The Bridegroom with his bride!

The wind-flower and the violet, they perished long ago,And the brier-rose and the orchis died amid the summer glow;But on the hill the golden-rod, and the aster in the wood,And the yellow sun-flower by the brook, in autumn beauty stood,Till fell the frost from the clear cold heaven, as falls the plague on men,And the brightness of their smile was gone, from upland, glade, and glen.

And now, when comes the calm mild day, as still such days will come,To call the squirrel and the bee from out their winter home;When the sound of dropping nuts is heard, though all the trees are still,And twinkle in the smoky light the waters of the rill,The south wind searches for the flowers whose fragrance late he bore,And sighs to find them in the wood and by the stream no more.

And then I think of one who in her youthful beauty died,The fair meek blossom that grew up and faded by my side.In the cold moist earth we laid her, when the forest cast the leaf,And we wept that one so lovely should have a life so brief:Yet not unmeet it was that one like that young friend of ours,So gentle and so beautiful, should perish with the flowers.

Eyes the shady night has shutCannot see the record cut,And silence sounds no worse than cheersAfter earth has stopped the ears:

Now you will not swell the routOf lads that wore their honours out,Runners whom renown outranAnd the name died before the man.

So set, before its echoes fade,The fleet foot on the sill of shade,And hold to the low lintel upThe still-defended challenge-cup.

And round that early-laurelled headWill flock to gaze the strengthless dead,And find unwithered on its curlsThe garland briefer than a girl's.

The golden hours on angel wings Flew o'er me and my dearie;For dear to me as light and life Was my sweet Highland Mary.

Wi' mony a vow and lock'd embrace Our parting was fu' tender;And pledging aft to meet again, We tore oursels asunder;But O! fell Death's untimely frost, That nipt my flower sae early!Now green's the sod, and cauld's the clay, That wraps my Highland Mary!

O pale, pale now, those rosy lips, I aft hae kiss'd sae fondly!And closed for aye the sparkling glance That dwelt on me sae kindly;And mouldering now in silent dust That heart that lo'ed me dearly!But still within my bosom's core Shall live my Highland Mary.

Beneath those rugged elms, that yew-tree's shade,Where heaves the turf in many a mouldering heap,Each in his narrow cell for ever laid,The rude Forefathers of the hamlet sleep.

The breezy call of incense-breathing morn,The swallow twittering from the straw-built shed,The cock's shrill clarion, or the echoing horn,No more shall rouse them from their lowly bed.

For them no more the blazing hearth shall burnOr busy housewife ply her evening care:No children run to lisp their sire's return,Or climb his knees the envied kiss to share.

Oft did the harvest to their sickle yield,Their furrow oft the stubborn glebe has broke;How jocund did they drive their team afield!How bow'd the woods beneath their sturdy stroke!

Let not Ambition mock their useful toil,Their homely joys, and destiny obscure;Nor Grandeur hear with a disdainful smileThe short and simple annals of the Poor.

The boast of heraldry, the pomp of power,And all that beauty, all that wealth e'er gave,Await alike th' inevitable hour:--The paths of glory lead but to the grave.

Nor you, ye Proud, impute to these the faultIf Memory o'er their tomb no trophies raise,Where through the long-drawn aisle and fretted vault,The pealing anthem swells the note of praise.

Can storied urn or animated bustBack to its mansion call the fleeting breath?Can Honour's voice provoke the silent dust,Or Flattery soothe the dull cold ear of Death?

Perhaps in this neglected spot is laidSome heart once pregnant with celestial fire;Hands, that the rod of empire might have sway'd,Or waked to ecstasy the living lyre:

But Knowledge to their eyes her ample pageRich with the spoils of time, did ne'er unroll;Chill Penury repress'd their noble rage,And froze the genial current of the soul.

Full many a gem of purest ray sereneThe dark unfathom'd caves of ocean bear:Full many a flower is born to blush unseen,And waste its sweetness on the desert air.

Some village-Hampden, that with dauntless breastThe little tyrant of his fields withstood,Some mute inglorious Milton here may rest,Some Cromwell, guiltless of his country's blood.

Th' applause of listening senates to command,The threats of pain and ruin to despise,To scatter plenty o'er a smiling land,And read their history in a nation's eyes

Their lot forbad; nor circumscribed aloneTheir growing virtues, but their crimes confined;Forbad to wade through slaughter to a throne,And shut the gates of mercy on mankind;

The struggling pangs of conscious truth to hide,To quench the blushes of ingenuous shame,Or heap the shrine of Luxury and PrideWith incense kindled at the Muse's flame.

Far from the madding crowd's ignoble strifeTheir sober wishes never learn'd to stray;Along the cool sequester'd vale of lifeThey kept the noiseless tenour of their way.

Yet e'en these bones from insult to protectSome frail memorial still erected nigh,With uncouth rhymes and shapeless sculpture deck'd,Implores the passing tribute of a sigh.

Their name, their years, spelt by the unletter'd Muse,The place of fame and elegy supply:And many a holy text around she strews,That teach the rustic moralist to die.

For who, to dumb forgetfulness a prey,This pleasing anxious being e'er resign'd,Left the warm precincts of the cheerful day,Nor cast one longing, lingering look behind?

On some fond breast the parting soul relies,Some pious drops the closing eye requires;E'en from the tomb the voice of Nature cries,E'en in our ashes live their wonted fires.

For thee, who, mindful of th' unhonour'd dead,Dost in those lines their artless tale relate;If chance, by lonely Contemplation led,Some kindred spirit shall inquire thy fate,--

Haply some hoary-headed swain may say,Oft have we seen him at the peep of dawn,Brushing with hasty steps the dews away,To meet the sun upon the upland lawn;

There, at the foot of yonder nodding beechThat wreathes its old fantastic roots so high,His listless length at noon-tide would he stretch,And pore upon the brook that babbles by.

Hard by yon wood, now smiling as in scorn,Muttering his wayward fancies he would rove;Now drooping, woeful-wan, like one forlorn,Or crazed with care, or cross'd in hopeless love.

One morn I miss'd him on the custom'd hill,Along the heath, and near his favourite tree;Another came; nor yet beside the rill,Nor up the lawn, nor at the wood was he;

The next with dirges due in sad array,Slow through the church-way path we saw him borne,--Approach, and read (for thou canst read) the layGraved on the stone beneath yon aged thorn.

THE EPITAPH.

Here rests his head upon the lap of EarthA Youth, to Fortune and to Fame unknown;Fair Science frown'd not on his humble birth,And Melancholy mark'd him for her own.

Large was his bounty, and his soul sincere;Heaven did a recompense as largely send:He gave to Misery all he had, a tear,He gain'd from Heaven, 'twas all he wish'd, a friend.

No farther seek his merits to disclose,Or draw his frailties from their dread abode,(There they alike in trembling hope repose),The bosom of his Father and his God.

As I went down the water side,None but my foe to be my guide,None but my foe to be my guide, On fair Kirconnell lea;

I lighted down my sword to draw,I hacked him in pieces sma',I hacked him in pieces sma', For her sake that died for me.

O Helen fair, beyond compare!I'll make a garland of thy hairShall bind my heart for evermair Until the day I die.

O that I were where Helen lies!Night and day on me she cries;Out of my bed she bids me rise, Says, "Haste, and come to me!"

O Helen fair! O Helen chaste!If I were with thee, I were blest,Where thou lies low and takes thy rest On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish my grave were growing green,A winding-sheet drawn ower my een,And I in Helen's arms lying, On fair Kirconnell lea.

I wish I were where Helen lies;Night and day on me she cries;And I am weary of the skies, Since my Love died for me.

And this was the reason that, long ago, In this kingdom by the sea,A wind blew out of a cloud, chilling My beautiful Annabel Lee,So that her high-born kinsmen came And bore her away from me,To shut her up in a sepulchre In this kingdom by the sea.

The angels, not half so happy in heaven, Went envying her and me--Yes! that was the reason (as all men know, In this kingdom by the sea)That the wind came out of the cloud one night, Chilling and killing my Annabel Lee.

But our love it was stronger by far than the love Of those who were older than we-- Of many far wiser than we--And neither the angels in heaven above, Nor the demons down under the sea,Can ever dissever my soul from the soul Of the beautiful Annabel Lee:

For the moon never beams without bringing me dreams Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;And the stars never rise, but I feel the bright eyes Of the beautiful Annabel Lee;And so, all the night-tide, I lie down by the sideOf my darling--my darling--my life and my bride, In the sepulchre there by the sea, In her tomb by the sounding sea.

And I rest so composedly Now, in my bed,That any beholder Might fancy me dead--Might start at beholding me, Thinking me dead.

The moaning and groaning, The sighing and sobbing,Are quieted now, With that horrible throbbingAt heart--ah, that horrible, Horrible throbbing!

The sickness--the nausea-- The pitiless pain--Have ceased, with the fever That madden’d my brain--With the fever called ‘Living’ That burn’d in my brain.

And O! of all tortures That torture the worstHas abated--the terrible Torture of thirstFor the naphthaline river Of Passion accurst--I have drunk of a water That quenches all thirst.

--Of a water that flows, With a lullaby sound,From a spring but a very few Feet under ground--From a cavern not very far Down under ground.

And ah! let it never Be foolishly saidThat my room it is gloomy, And narrow my bed;For man never slept In a different bed--And, to sleep, you must slumber In just such a bed.

My tantalized spirit Here blandly reposes,Forgetting, or never Regretting its roses--Its old agitations Of myrtles and roses:

For now, while so quietly Lying, it fanciesA holier odour About it, of pansies--A rosemary odour, Commingled with pansies--With rue and the beautiful Puritan pansies.

And so it lies happily, Bathing in manyA dream of the truth And the beauty of Annie--Drown’d in a bath Of the tresses of Annie.

She tenderly kiss’d me, She fondly caress’d,And then I fell gently To sleep on her breast--Deeply to sleep From the heaven of her breast.

When the light was extinguish’d, She cover’d me warm,And she pray’d to the angels To keep me from harm--To the queen of the angels To shield me from harm.

And I lie so composedly, Now, in my bed(Knowing her love), That you fancy me dead--And I rest so contentedly, Now, in my bed(With her love at my breast), That you fancy me dead--That you shudder to look at me, Thinking me dead.

But my heart it is brighter Than all of the manyStars in the sky, For it sparkles with Annie--It glows with the light Of the love of my Annie--With the thought of the light Of the eyes of my Annie.

I stood and watched by the window The noiseless work of the sky,And the sudden flurries of snow-birds, Like brown leaves whirling by.

I thought of a mound in sweet Auburn Where a little headstone stood;How the flakes were folding it gently, As did robins the babes in the wood.

Up spoke our own little Mabel, Saying, "Father, who makes it snow?"And I told of the good All-father Who cares for us here below.

Again I looked at the snow-fall, And thought of the leaden skyThat arched o'er our first great sorrow, When that mound was heaped so high.

I remember the gradual patience That fell from that cloud like snow,Flake by flake, healing and hiding The scar of our deep-plunged woe.

And again to the child I whispered, "The snow that husheth all,Darling, the merciful Father Alone can make it fall!"

Then, with eyes that saw not, I kissed her; And she, kissing back, could not knowThat my kiss was given to her sister, Folded close under deepening snow.

Who wasted his for me; but mine returns, And this lorn bosom burnsWith stifling heat, heaving it up in sleep, And waking me to weepTears that had melted his soft heart: for years Wept he as bitter tears.‘Merciful God!’ such was his latest prayer, ‘These may she never share!’Quieter is his breath, his breast more cold Than daisies in the mould,Where children spell, athwart the churchyard gate, His name and life’s brief date.Pray for him, gentle souls, whoe’er you be, And, O, pray too for me!

But I miss the soft clasp of your hand, And your breath warm on my cheek,And I still keep list’ning for the words You never more will speak.

’Tis but a step down yonder lane, And the little church stands near,The church where we were wed, Mary, I see the spire from here.But the graveyard lies between, Mary, And my step might break your rest--For I’ve laid you, darling! down to sleep, With your baby on your breast.

I’m very lonely now, Mary, For the poor make no new friends,But, O, they love the better still, The few our Father sends!And you were all I had, Mary, My blessin’ and my pride:There’s nothin’ left to care for now, Since my poor Mary died.

Yours was the good, brave heart, Mary, That still kept hoping on,When the trust in God had left my soul, And my arm’s young strength was gone:There was comfort ever on your lip, And the kind look on your brow--I bless you, Mary, for that same, Though you cannot hear me now.

I thank you for the patient smile When your heart was fit to break,When the hunger pain was gnawin’ there, And you hid it, for my sake!I bless you for the pleasant word, When your heart was sad and sore--O, I’m thankful you are gone, Mary, Where grief can’t reach you more!

I’m biddin’ you a long farewell, My Mary--kind and true!But I’ll not forget you, darling! In the land I’m goin’ to;They say there’s bread and work for all, And the sun shines always there--But I’ll not forget old Ireland, Were it fifty times as fair!

And often in those grand old woods I’ll sit, and shut my eyes,And my heart will travel back again To the place where Mary lies;And I’ll think I see the little stile Where we sat side by side:And the springin’ corn, and the bright May morn, When first you were my bride.

He promised me a wedding-ring,--The wedding-day was fix'd to-morrow;--Now he is wedded to his grave,Alas, his watery grave, in Yarrow!

Sweet were his words when last we met;My passion I as freely told him;Clasp'd in his arms, I little thoughtThat I should never more behold him!Scarce was he gone, I saw his ghost;It vanish'd with a shriek of sorrow;Thrice did the water-wraith ascend,And gave a doleful groan thro' Yarrow.

His mother from the window look'dWith all the longing of a mother;His little sister weeping walk'dThe green-wood path to meet her brother;They sought him east, they sought him west,They sought him all the forest thorough;They only saw the cloud of night,They only heard the roar of Yarrow.

No longer from thy window look--Thou hast no son, thou tender mother!No longer walk, thou lovely maid;Alas, thou hast no more a brother!No longer seek him east or westAnd search no more the forest thorough;For, wandering in the night so dark,He fell a lifeless corpse in Yarrow.

The tear shall never leave my cheek,No other youth shall be my marrow--I'll seek thy body in the stream,And then with thee I'll sleep in Yarrow.--The tear did never leave her cheek,No other youth became her marrow;She found his body in the stream,And now with him she sleeps in Yarrow.