Poems (Jackson)/A Funeral March
ES, all is ready now; the door and gateHave opened this last time for him, more wideThan is their wont; no longer side by side With us, he passes out; we follow, meek,And weeping at his pomp, which is not pride, And which he did not seek. We cannot speak,Because we loved him so; we hesitate,And cling and linger and in vain belate.Their feet who bear him. Slow, slow, slow,With every fibre holding back, we go; And cruel hands, while we are near, And weep afresh to hear,Have shut the door and shut the gate.
A FUNERAL MARCH.
I.
ES, all is ready now; the door and gateHave opened this last time for him, more wideThan is their wont; no longer side by side With us, he passes out; we follow, meek,And weeping at his pomp, which is not pride, And which he did not seek. We cannot speak,Because we loved him so; we hesitate,And cling and linger and in vain belate.Their feet who bear him. Slow, slow, slow,With every fibre holding back, we go; And cruel hands, while we are near, And weep afresh to hear,Have shut the door and shut the gate.II.
The air is full of shapes We do not see, but feel; Ghosts which no death escapes. No sepulchre can seal;Ghosts of forgotten things of joy and grief; And ghosts of things which never were, But promised him to be: they may deferTheir pledges now; his unbelief Is justified. Oh, why did they abideThis time, these restless ghosts, which glide, Accompanying him? Can they go inUnquestioned, and confront him in the grave, And answers winFrom dead lips which the live lips never gave?Will they return across the churchyard gateWith us, weeping with us, "Too late! too late!" Or are they dead, as he is dead? And when the burial rites are said,Will they lie down, the resurrection to await?
III.
With dumb, pathetic look the poor beasts goAt unaccustomed pace to suit our woe; Uncomprehending equallyOr what a grief or what a joy may be.House after house where life makes gladWe bear him past, who all of life has had.And men's and women's wistful eyesLook out on us in sorrow and surprise,For all men are of kin to one who dies.
IV.
Eager the light grass bendsTo let us pass, but springs again and wavesTo hide our footsteps; not a flower saves Its blossoming, or sendsOne odor less, as we go by;And never seemed the shining sky So full of birds and songs before.Whole tribes of yellow butterflies Dart mockingly and wheel and soar, Making it only seem the moreImpossible, this human death which liesSilent beneath their dance who liveOne day and die. Noiseless and swift,Winged seeds come through the air, and driftDown on the dead man's breast.They shall go with him into rest,And in the resurrection of the SpringTo his low grave shall giveThe beauty of some green and flowering thing.
V.
The glittering sun moves slowly overhead,It seems in rhythmic motion with our tread,Confronting us with its relentless, hot, Unswerving, blinding ray; Then, sparing notOne subtle torture, it makes haste to layA ghastly shadow all along the wayOf formless, soundless wheel and lifeless plume,All empty shapes in semblance of our gloom, Creeping along at our slow pace,Not for one moment nor in any placeForsaking us, nor ceasing to repeatIn taunting lines the faltering of our feet;Laying, lifting, in a mocking breath,Mocking shadows of the shadow of Death.
VI.
But now comes silent joy, anointingWith sudden, firm, and tender handOur eyes; anointed with this clayOf burial earth, we see how standAround us, marshalled under God's appointing,Such shining ones as on no other dayDescend. We see, with a majestic face,Of love ineffable, One walking in chief placeBeside the dead,—High Priest Of his salvation, KingOf his surrender, comrade till life ceased, Saviour from suffering,—O sweet, strong, loving Death!With yearning, pitying breath,He looks back from his dead to us, and saith,"O mine who love me not, what filledYour hearts with this strange fear?Could ye but hearThe new voice of this man whom I have willedTo set so free, to makeHim subject in my kingdom, for the sakeOf being greater king than I,Reigning with Christ eternally!"
VII.
Closer and closer press the shining ones;Clearer and clearer grow the notesOf music from the heavenly throats.We see the gleaming of the precious stones Which set the Gate of Life. King's SonsThrong out to meet the man we bring;We hear his voice in entering: "Oh! see how all these weep Who come with me! Must they return?Oh! send swift messenger to Christ, and see If He will bid you keep Them too!" Scarce we discernFrom distant Heaven where Christ sits and hears,The tender whispered voice, in which he saith,"My faithful servant, Death, is Lord of death:My days must be a thousand years."
VIII.
The Gate of Life swings close. All have gone in;Majestic Death, his freedman following;And all those ghostly shapes, the next of kin,Their deeds, which were and were not, rendering; And tender Joy and Grief, Bearing in one pale sheafTheir harvest; and the shining ones who come And go continually. Alone and silently,We take the road again that leads us home. The mother has no more a son;The wife no husband; and the childNo father. Yet around the woman's daysImmortal loverhood lights blaze Of deathless fires; and never mother smiledLike her who smiles forever, seeing oneImmortal child, for whom immortal fatherhoodBeseeches and receives eternal good.And days that were not full are filled; And with triumphant breath, Mighty to cheer and save,The voices ring which once were stilled,The pulses beat which once were chilled, "Life is the victory of the grave, Christ is Lord of the Lord of Death!"