A Churchyard Dream

Methought that in a Burial-ground One still, sad vernal day, Upon a little daisied mound I in a slumber lay; While faintly through my dream I heard The hymning of that holy bird, Who with more gushing rapture sings The higher up in Heaven float his unwearied wings! In that my mournful reverie, Such song of heavenly birth The voice seemed of a soul set free From this imprisoning earth; Higher and higher still it soared, A holy anthem that adored, Till vanished song and singer blest In the blue depths of everlasting rest. Just then a Child in sportive glee Came gliding o'er the graves, Like a lone bird that on the sea Floats dallying with the waves; Upon the vernal flowers awhile She poured the beauty of her smile, Then laid her bright cheek on the sod, And, overpowered with joy, slept in the eye of God. The flowers that shine all round her head May well be breathing sweet, For flowers are they that Spring hath shed To deck her winding-sheet; And well the tenderest gleams may fall Of sunshine on that hillock small On which she sleeps, for they have smiled O'er the predestined grave of that unconscious Child. In bridal garments, white as snow, A solitary Maid Doth meekly bring a sunny glow Into that solemn shade. A Churchyard seems a joyful place In the visit of so sweet a face; A soul is in that deep blue eye Too good to live on earth—too beautiful to die. But Death behind a marble Tomb Looks out upon his prey, And smiles to know that heavenly bloom Is yet of earthly clay. Far off I hear a wailing wide, And, while I gaze upon that Bride, A silent Wraith before me stands, And points unto a grave with cold, pale, claspèd hands. A Matron beautiful and bright, As is the silver Moon Whose lustre tames the sparkling light Of the starry eyes of June, Is shining o'er the Churchyard lone, While circling her as in a zone, Delighted dance five Cherubs fair, And round their native urn shake wide their golden hair. O Children they are holy things, In sight of Earth and Heaven! An Angel shields with guardian wings, The home where they are given. Strong power there is in children's tears, And stronger in their lispèd prayers— But the vulture stoops down from above, And, 'mid her orphan brood, bears off the Parent Dove. The young—the youthful—the mature Have smiled and all past by, As if nought lovely could endure Beneath the envious sky; While bowed with age and age's woes, Still near—yet still far off the close Of weary life, yon aged Crone Can scarce with blind eyes find her Husband's funeral-stone. All dead the joyous, bright, and free, To whom this life was dear!— The green leaves shivered from the tree And dangling left the sere! O dim wild world!—but from the sky Down came the glad Lark waveringly, And startled by his liquid mirth I rose to walk in Faith the darkling paths of Earth.