Obiit MDCCCXXXIII, XXXI–XXXVIII

When Lazarus left his charnel-cave, And home to Mary’s house return’d, Was this demanded—if he yearn’d To hear her weeping by his grave?

‘Where wert thou, brother, those four days?’ There lives no record of reply, Which telling what it is to die Had surely added praise to praise.

From every house the neighbours met, The streets were fill’d with joyful sound, A solemn gladness even crown’d The purple brows of Olivet.

Behold a man raised up by Christ! The rest remaineth unreveal’d; He told it not; or something seal’d The lips of that Evangelist.

Her eyes are homes of silent prayer, Nor other thought her mind admits But, he was dead, and there he sits, And he that brought him back is there.

Then one deep love doth supersede All other, when her ardent gaze Roves from the living brother’s face. And rests upon the Life indeed.

All subtle thought, all curious fears, Borne down by gladness so complete, She bows, she bathes the Saviour’s feet With costly spikenard and with tears.

Thrice blest whose lives are faithful prayers, Whose loves in higher love endure; What souls possess themselves so pure, Or is there blessedness like theirs?

O thou that after toil and storm Mayst seem to have reach’d a purer air, Whose faith has centre everywhere, Nor cares to fix itself to form,

Leave thou thy sister when she prays, Her early Heaven, her happy views; Nor thou with shadow’d hint confuse A life that leads melodious days.

Her faith thro’ form is pure as thine, Her hands are quicker unto good. Oh, sacred be the flesh and blood To which she links a truth divine!

See, thou that countest reason ripe In holding by the law within, Thou fail not in a world of sin, And ev’n for want of such a type.

My own dim life should teach me this, That life shall live for evermore, Else earth is darkness at the core, And dust and ashes all that is;

This round of green, this orb of flame, Fantastic beauty; such as lurks In some wild Poet, when he works Without a conscience or an aim.

What then were God to such as I? ’Twere hardly worth my while to choose Of things all mortal, or to use A little patience ere I die;

’Twere best at once to sink to peace, Like birds the charming serpent draws, To drop head-foremost in the jaws Of vacant darkness and to cease.

Yet if some voice that man could trust Should murmur from the narrow house: The cheeks drop in; the body bows; Man dies: nor is there hope in dust:

Might I not say, yet even here, But for one hour, O Love, I strive To keep so sweet a thing alive? But I should turn mine ears and hear

The moanings of the homeless sea, The sound of streams that swift or slow Draw down Æonian hills, and sow The dust of continents to be;

And Love would answer with a sigh, ‘The sound of that forgetful shore Will change my sweetness more and more, Half dead to know that I shall die.’

O me! what profits it to put An idle case? If Death were seen At first as Death, Love had not been, Or been in narrowest working shut,

Mere fellowship of sluggish moods, Or in his coarsest Satyr-shape Had bruised the herb and crush’d the grape, And bask’d and batten’d in the woods.

Tho’ truths in manhood darkly join, Deep-seated in our mystic frame, We yield all blessing to the name Of Him that made them current coin;

For wisdom dealt with mortal powers, Where Truth in closest words shall fail, When Truth embodied in a tale Shall enter in at lowly doors.

And so the Word had breath, and wrought With human hands the creed of creeds In loveliness of perfect deeds, More strong than all poetic thought;

Which he may read that binds the sheaf, Or builds the house, or digs the grave, And those wild eyes that watch the wave In roarings round the coral reef.

Urania speaks with darken’d brow: ‘Thou pratest here where thou art least; This faith has many a purer priest, And many an abler voice than thou:

Go down beside thy native rill, On thy Parnassus set thy feet, And hear thy laurel whisper sweet About the ledges of the hill.’

And my Melpomene replies, A touch of shame upon her cheek: ‘I am not worthy but to speak Of thy prevailing mysteries;

For I am but an earthly Muse, And owning but a little art To lull with song an aching heart, And render human love his dues;

But brooding on the dear one dead, And all he said of things divine, (And dear as sacramental wine To dying lips is all he said),

I murmur’d, as I came along, Of comfort clasp’d in truth reveal’d; And loiter’d in the master’s field, And darken’d sanctities with song.’

With weary steps I loiter on, Tho’ always under alter’d skies The purple from the distance dies, My prospect and horizon gone.

No joy the blowing season gives, The herald melodies of spring, But in the songs I love to sing A doubtful gleam of solace lives.

If any care for what is here Survive in spirits render’d free, Then are these songs I sing of thee Not all ungrateful to thine ear.