Maryland, my Maryland, and other poems/La Fete Des Morts
LA FETE DES MORTS
Peace to the dead; though the skies are chill,
And the Norse wind waileth coarse and shrill.
Peace to the dead! though the living shake
The globe, with their brawling battle-quake.
Peace to the dead! though peace is not
In the regal dome or the pauper cot.
Peace to the dead; there’s peace, we trust,
With the pale dreamers in the dust.
Roses and pansies guard them well,
Tinging triumphant immortelle,
Minions of Doubt, we bend the knee
To the kings and queens of mystery.
Storm and sunshine, mist and rain,
Do ye mock at their marble doors in vain?
And ye, sepulchral cliffs of night,
Do ye rise to appeal their shadowed sight?
O Darkness! thy mission is not just
To the pale dreamers in the dust.
Peace to the dead! afar and near,
In folds of satin or beggar’s bier,
Whether they sleep in the kirk-yard ground,
Or bleach in the gullied seas profound;
Garnered by Time’s dull scimitar,
Or cleft in the scarlet fields of war;
Godless is he who breaketh the crust
Of the Past, o’er the dreamers in the dust.
Peace to the mother, there beguiled
With her frozen lily—her deathless child;
Peace to the father and his mate,
Peace to the lowly and the great,
Peace to the maidens as they rest
With the cross on the cold and waxen breast;
Peace to the soldier, blossom and bud,
For he fell with the sacrament of blood;
Peace to the dead! there’s peace, we trust,
With the pale dreamers in the dust.
Father! if peace is not with them,
Where shall we seek for the subtle gem?
’Tis not of the Earth, for we lose it here,
And death is the gate of the golden sphere.
Father! Thy mercies cannot cease;
Crush us, but give Thy sleepers peace.
Smite us, Redeemer, if Thou must,
But pardon the dreamers in the dust!
New Orleans, Nov. 2, 1862.