The Isle of Palms, and Other Poems Part 20

LINES

SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME, AUTHOR OF "THE SABBATH," &C.

_Two Editions of this little Poem have been already published; and its reception among those whom the author most wished to please, has induced him to include it in this volume._

With tearless eyes and undisturbed heart, O Bard! of sinless life and holiest song, I muse upon thy death-bed and thy grave; Though round that grave the trodden gra.s.s still lies Besmeared with clay; for many feet were there, Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sank Thy coffin, GRAHAME! into the quiet cell.

Yet, well I loved thee, even as one might love An elder brother, imaged in the soul With solemn features, half-creating awe, But smiling still with gentleness and peace.

Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voice Did tremblingly breathe forth that touching air, By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old, Amid the silence of his pastoral hills, Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.

Wept, too, have I, when thou didst simply read From thine own lays so simply beautiful Some short pathetic tale of human grief, Or orison or hymn of deeper love, That might have won the sceptic's sullen heart To gradual adoration, and belief Of Him who died for us upon the cross.

Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calm Of thy most Christian spirit blessing all Who look'd upon thee, with those gentlest smiles That never lay on human face but thine; Even when thy serious eyes were lighted up With kindling mirth, and from thy lips distill'd Words soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn, Then, too, I could have wept, for on thy face, Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame, By other cause impair'd than length of years, Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heart To melancholy dreams, dreams of decay, Of death and burial, and the silent tomb.

And of the tomb thou art an inmate now!

Methinks I see thy name upon the stone Placed at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry.

Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive, The mournful tears of deep foreboding love That might not be restrain'd; but now they seem Most idle all! thy worldly course is o'er, And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soul As some delightful music heard in youth, Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-like Than when it murmur'd through the shades of earth.

Short time wert thou allow'd to guide thy flock Through the green pastures, where in quiet glides The Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voice Familiar to their hearts, who felt that heaven Did therein speak, when suddenly it fell Mute, and for ever! Empty now and still The holy house which thou didst meekly grace, When with uplifted hand, and eye devout, Thy soul was breathed to Jesus, or explained The words that lead unto eternal life.

From infancy thy heart was vow'd to G.o.d: And aye the hope that one day thou might'st keep A little fold, from all the storms of sin Safe-shelter'd, and by reason of thy prayers Warm'd by the suns.h.i.+ne of approving Heaven, Upheld thy spirit, destined for a while To walk far other paths, and with the crowd Of worldly men to mingle. Yet even then, Thy life was ever such as well became One whose pure soul was fixed upon the cross!

And when with simple fervent eloquence, GRAHAME pled the poor man's cause, the listner oft Thought how becoming would his visage smile Across the house of G.o.d, how beauteously That man would teach the saving words of Heaven!

How well he taught them, many a one will feel Unto their dying day; and when they lie On the grave's brink, unfearing and composed, Their speechless souls will bless the holy man Whose voice exhorted, and whose footsteps led Unto the paths of life; nor sweeter hope, Next to the gracious look of Christ, have they Than to behold his face who saved their souls.

But closed on earth thy blessed ministry!

And while thy native Scotland mourns her son Untimely reft from her maternal breast, Weeps the fair sister-land, with whom ere while The stranger sojourn'd, stranger but in birth, For well she loved thee, as thou wert her own.

On a most clear and noiseless Sabbath-night I heard that thou wert gone, from the soft voice Of one who knew thee not, but deeply loved Thy spirit meekly s.h.i.+ning in thy song.

At such an hour the death of one like thee Gave no rude shock, nor by a sudden grief Destroy'd the visions from the starry sky Then settling in my soul. The moonlight slept With a diviner sadness on the air; The tender dimness of the night appeared Darkening to deeper sorrow, and the voice Of the far torrent from the silent hills Flow'd, as I listen'd, like a funeral strain Breath'd by some mourning solitary thing.

Yet Nature in her pensiveness still wore A blissful smile, as if she sympathized With those who grieved that her own Bard was dead, And yet was happy that his spirit dwelt At last within her holiest sanctuary, 'Mid long expecting angels.

And if e'er Faith, fearless faith, in the eternal bliss Of a departed brother, may be held By beings blind as we, that faith should dry All eyes that weep for GRAHAME; or through their tears Shew where he sits august and beautiful On the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saints Whose glory he on earth so sweetly sang.

No fears have we when some delightful child Falls from its innocence into the grave!

Soon as we know its little breath is gone, We see it lying in its Saviour's breast, A heavenly flower there fed with heavenly dew.

Childlike in all that makes a child so dear To G.o.d and man, and ever consecrates Its cradle and its grave, my GRAHAME, wert thou!

And had'st thou died upon thy mother's breast Ere thou could'st lisp her name, more fit for heaven Thou scarce had'st been, than when thy honour'd head Was laid into the dust, and Scotland wept O'er hill and valley for her darling Bard.

How beautiful is genius when combined With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd By the soft hand of Piety, and hung Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating With solemn music in the ear of G.o.d.

And must the Bard from sacred themes refrain?

Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days, That, kneeling in the silence of his tent, Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'd Unto his heavenly Father. Strains survive Erst chaunted to the lyre of Israel, More touching far than ever poet breathed Amid the Grecian isles, or later times Have heard in Albion, land of every lay.

Why therefore are ye silent, ye who know The trance of adoration, and behold Upon your bended knees the throne of Heaven, And him who sits thereon? Believe it not, That Poetry, in purer days the nurse, Yea! parent oft of blissful piety, Should silent keep from service of her G.o.d, Nor with her summons, loud but silver-toned, Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep, Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dread On regions where the sky for ever lies Bright as the sun himself, and trembling all With ravis.h.i.+ng music, or where darkness broods O'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne.

Such glory, GRAHAME! is thine: Thou didst despise To win the ear of this degenerate age By gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'd On theme of earthly state, or, idler still, By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays, Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train, Profaning the best name of poesy.

With loftier aspirations, and an aim More worthy man's immortal nature, Thou That holiest spirit that still loves to dwell In the upright heart and pure, at noon of night Didst fervently invoke, and, led by her Above the Aonian mount, send from the stars Of heaven such soul-subduing melody As Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born.

It is the Sabbath-day: Creation sleeps Cradled within the arms of heavenly love!

The mystic day, when from the vanquish'd grave The world's Redeemer rose, and hail'd the light Of G.o.d's forgiving smile. Obscured and pale Were then the plumes of prostrate seraphim, Then hush'd the universe her sphere-born strain, When from his throne, Paternal Deity Declared the Saviour not in vain had shed His martyr'd glory round the accursed cross, That fallen man might sit in Paradise, And earth to heaven ascend in jubilee.

O blessed day, by G.o.d and man beloved!

With more surpa.s.sing glory breaks thy dawn Upon my soul, remembering the sweet hymns That he, whom nations evermore shall name The Sabbath-Bard, in gratulation high Breathed forth to thee, as from the golden urn That holds the incense of immortal song.

That Poem, so divinely melancholy Throughout its reigning spirit, yet withal Bathing in hues of winning gentleness The pure religion that alone can save, Full many a wanderer to the paths of peace Ere now hath made return, and he who framed Its hallow'd numbers, in the realms of bliss Hath met and known the smiles of seraph-souls, By his delightful genius saved from death.

Oft when the soul is lost in thoughtless guilt, And seeming deaf unto the still small voice Of conscience and of G.o.d, some simple phrase Of beauty or sublimity will break The spell that link'd us to the bands of sin, And all at once, as waking from a dream, We shudder at the past, and bless the light That breaks upon us like the new-born day.

Even so it fares with them, who to this world Have yielded up their spirits, and, impure In thought and act, have lived without a sense Of G.o.d, who counts the beatings of their hearts.

But men there are of a sublimer mould, Who dedicate with no unworthy zeal To human Science, up the toilsome steep Where she in darkness dwells, with pilgrim-feet By night and day unwearied strive to climb, Pride their conductor, glory their reward.

Too oft, alas! even in the search of truth They pa.s.s her on the way, although she speak With loving voice, and cast on them her eyes So beautifully innocent and pure.

To such, O GRAHAME! thy voice cries from the tomb!

Thy worth they loved, thy talents they admired, And when they think how peaceful was thy life, Thy death far more than peaceful, though thou sought'st, Above all other knowledge, that of G.o.d And his redeeming Son; when o'er the page Where thy mild soul for ever sits enshrined, They hang with soften'd hearts, faith may descend Upon them as they muse, or hope that leads The way to faith, even as the morning-star s.h.i.+nes brightly, heralding approaching day.

But happier visions still now bless my soul.

While lonely wandering o'er the hills and dales Of my dear native country, with such love As they may guess, who, from their father's home Sojourning long and far, fall down and kiss The gra.s.s and flowers of Scotland, in I go, Not doubting a warm welcome from the eyes Of woman, man, and child, into a cot Upon a green hill-side, and almost touch'd By its own nameless stream that bathes the roots Of the old ash tree swinging o'er the roof.

Most pleasant, GRAHAME! unto thine eye and heart Such humble home! there often hast thou sat 'Mid the glad family listening to thy voice So silently, the ear might then have caught Without the rustle of the falling leaf.

And who so sweetly ever sang as thou, The joys and sorrows of the poor man's life.

Not fancifully drawn, that one might weep, Or smile, he knew not why, but with the hues Of truth all brightly glistening, to the heart Cheering, as earth's soft verdure to the eye, Yet still and mournful as the evening light.

More powerful in the sanct.i.ty of death, There reigns thy spirit over those it loved!

Some chosen books by pious men composed, Kept from the dust, in every cottage lie Through the wild loneliness of Scotia's vales, Beside the Bible, by whose well-known truths All human thoughts are by the peasant tried.

O blessed privilege of Nature's Bard!

To cheer the house of virtuous poverty, With gleams of light more beautiful than oft Play o'er the splendours of the palace wall.

Methinks I see a fair and lovely child Sitting composed upon his mother's knee, And reading with a low and lisping voice Some pa.s.sage from the Sabbath, while the tears Stand in his little eyes so softly blue, Till, quite o'ercome with pity, his white arms He twines around her neck, and hides his sighs Most infantine, within her gladden'd breast, Like a sweet lamb, half sportive, half afraid, Nestling one moment 'neath its bleating dam.

And now the happy mother kisses oft The tender-hearted child, lays down the book, And asks him if he doth remember still The stranger who once gave him, long ago, A parting kiss, and blest his laughing eyes!

His sobs speak fond remembrance, and he weeps To think so kind and good a man should die.

Though dead on earth, yet he from heaven looks down On thee, sweet child! and others pure like thee!

Made happier, though an angel, by the sight Of happiness, and virtue by himself Created or preserved; and oft his soul Leaves for a while her amaranthine bowers, And dimly hears the choral symphonies Of spirits singing round the Saviour's throne, Delighted with a glimpse of Scotland's vales Winding round hills where once his pious hymns Were meditated in his silent heart, Or with those human beings here beloved, Whether they smile, as virtue ever smiles, With sunny countenance gentle and benign.

Or a slight shade of sadness seems to say, That they are thinking of the sainted soul That looks from heaven on them!--

A holy creed It is, and most delightful unto all Who feel how deeply human sympathies Blend with our hopes of heaven, which holds that death Divideth not, as by a roaring sea, Departed spirits from this lower sphere.

How could the virtuous even in heaven be blest, Unless they saw the lovers and the friends, Whom soon they hope to greet! A placid lake Between Time floateth and Eternity, Across whose sleeping waters murmur oft The voices of the immortal, hither brought Soft as the thought of music in the soul.

Deep, deep the love we bear unto the dead!

The adoring reverence that we humbly pay To one who is a spirit, still partakes Of that affectionate tenderness we own'd Towards a being, once, perhaps, as frail And human as ourselves, and in the shape Celestial, and angelic lineaments, s.h.i.+nes a fair likeness of the form and face That won in former days our earthly love.

O GRAHAME! even I in midnight dreams behold Thy placid aspect, more serenely fair Than the sweet moon that calms the autumnal heaven.

Thy voice steals, 'mid the pauses of the wind, Unto my listening soul more touchingly Than the pathetic tones of airy harp That sound at evening like a spirit's song.

Yet, many are there dearer to thy shade, Yea, dearer far than I; and when their tears They dry at last (and wisdom bids them weep, If long and oft, O sure not bitterly) Then wilt thou stand before their raptured eyes As beautiful as kneeling saint e'er deem'd In his bright cell Messiah's vision'd form.

I may not think upon her blissful dreams Who bears thy name on earth, and in it feels A Christian glory and a pious pride, That must illume the widow's lonely path With never dying suns.h.i.+ne.--To her soul Soft sound the strains now flowing fast from mine!

And in those tranquil hours when she withdraws From loftier consolations, may the tears, (For tears will fall, most idle though they be,) Now shed by me to her but little known, Yield comfort to her, as a certain pledge That many a one, though silent and unseen, Thinks of her and the children at her knees, Blest for the father's and the husband's sake.

THE END.