Poems Sigourney 1827/A Walk in the Church Yard of my Native Place
A WALK IN THE CHURCH YARD OF MY NATIVE PLACE.
—Come,—let me turn
Through yon green avenue,—and musing walk
Where sleep the silent dead.—Ah! what a throng
Have lent their fleshly vestures to the worm
Beneath these shades.—Here first, the forest sons
Buried their lifeless brethren,—ere the feet
Of our pale race invaded them,—to die.
—First to thy pillow,—not with stranger step
I rove,—dear Benefactress!—thou whose voice
To "virtue, glory, and eternal life"
Allured my childhood.—With what gentle hand
Thou from obscurity's deep shadows drew
Thy favour'd one,—touching her unform'd mind
With love of knowledge,—as Prometheus shed
Heaven's flame upon the statue of his love.
Ah!—many a year of changes and of cares
Have taught the world's hard lesson, since thine eye
Bade me farewell,—yet still to thee I turn
As tearful Israel turn'd to Zion's hill,
The city of her joy. Oft have I set
Within thine hallow'd mould, fair, tender plants,
The stainless rose, and constant evergreen,
And bless'd, and bade them cheer her bed,—whose life
Was Virtue's fragrance,—breathing toward its God.
Yet they have wither'd,—one by one have fallen
Beneath keen skies:—so didst thou teach my heart,—
(Too heedless then!)—that every earthly flower
Bore in its breast, the seeds of wan decay,
And soon must perish.—Still shall thy pure life,
Thy peaceful death,—thy seraph smile of bliss,
Such as they glow upon my nightly dream,
Deep in my soul's most cherish'd tablet dwell.
—When gratitude her genial warmth forgets
In death's embrace,—when the last debt I pay
To earth, my mother,—Oh! that I might be
Remember'd but by one fond, sorrowing heart
As I remember thee.
—Thou too,—dear friend
Of early sports, and studies more beloved,—
'Tis meet that I should linger near thy couch
Communing with my spirit.—All our hours
Of blissful intercourse,—when unrobed thought
Sprang to its fellow in each other's breast,—
All our congenial hopes,—our sister joys
When rambling o'er the mountain's craggy brow,
Or winning from its cell the pencill'd flower,
We spake of Nature's God,—dost thou recall
Their image in the climes of love serene?
—Dwells Friendship's warmth in angel bosoms pure?
When near the foaming rush of angry floods,
Where oft we roved,—now sad and lone I stray,
Or hang enamour'd o'er the page sublime
Of lofty bard,—or at dim twilight think
Of life's uncertainty,—or waking, muse,
Blending sweet visions with the thought of thee,
Is it thy sigh, that through still midnight breathes
"Rise!—sister spirit?”
—At yon humble stone
Sure I should pause, with reverence justly due
To him who sleeps beneath.—I knew him well;
The patient teacher of our infant years.—
The terror of his frown hath driven the blood
From many a truant's cheek,—while his keen eye
Darting like lightning to the false one's soul,
Uprooted guilt.—The pale delinquent stood
Trembling before him,—if the appointed task
Were unfulfill'd;—nor could the rust of sloth,
Corroding intellect with baleful spot,
Long bear the atmosphere, his dreaded wrath
Kindled around it.—But he lived in days
Ere Nature's strong affinity to good
Had been discover'd,—and ere Wisdom chose
That more convenient rule,—to train the child
Not where he should,—but where he wills to go.
—I loved that man of science,—for his voice
Was gentle to the youth who careful sought
To stamp upon his fleeting hours, the trace
Of knowledge and of truth.—I loved him more
For his high sway,—which banish'd from his realm
The traitor passions,—and the guileful arts.
Him Education honour'd as her priest,
To offer on her altar fragrant fruits
Matured by labour;—for he never sought
To hoodwink discipline,—and lure the mind
With false indulgence from that toil severe
By which great men are great.—
—This little mound,
With velvet turf besprent, were better gemm'd
With snow-drops white.—A beauteous infant sleeps
Here with its mother.—O'er its soft blue eye
And o'er the slumber of its parted lips
Rose-tinted,—such a holy smile would steal
As seem'd not of earth's prompting.—Said it not
That the bright treasure in that chrystal vase
Should soon be claim'd of God?—
—And is it so!—
That to my place of birth, where every germ
Of hope was planted, I may never come
But grief chastise the joy?—When last the morn
Spread forth her purple robe, I sought a friend
Who on my childhood and my youth would smile
With affable regard, cheering a heart
That often sigh'd in loneliness.—Fair plants
Still deck'd her garden,—but she was not there
To nurse their sweets.—Her well known mansion rose
In wonted hospitality,—but she
Welcomed me not.—They pointed to the tomb,
And bade me seek her there.
—And does thy head
Rest with the ancient of thy noble house
Immured in silence?—Many a tear will fall
Bearing the answer from the sons of need,
Whom hungry, thou hast fed,—uncover'd, clothed,—
And sorrowing, comforted.
—With silent course
Unostentatious as the heaven-shed dew
Thy bounties fell; nor didst thou scatter gifts
Or utter prayers with pharisaic zeal
For man to note.—Thy praise was with thy God.
In that domestic sphere where Nature rears
Woman's meek throne, thy worth was eminent;
Nor breath'd thy goodness o'er cold, stoic hearts.—
What gentleness was thine,—what kind regard,
To him thou lov'dst what dove-like tenderness
In voice and deed.—Almost Disease might bear
Its lot without repining,—wert thou near
Beside its pillow, or around its couch
Like ministering angel.
—Scarce had Spring
Which shed its damp dews o'er thy daughter's grave
Return'd,—ere thou wert waiting to ascend
Like her, to that bright host, whose ceaseless harps
Hymn the Redeemer.—She was as a rose
Gather'd in loveliness, mid perfumed flowers
And warbling birds of love,—yet drooping still
For the pure breath of that celestial clime
Where summer hath no cloud.—She, with firm hand
Grasp'd the strong hope of everlasting life,
And thou,—in trembling, yet confiding trust,
Didst dare the waves of death's tempestuous flood
With the same anchor.—So, thou art at rest,
Where trouble comes not;—though thine image lives
With grieving love.—
But peace!—thou pensive strain,—
How vain to mourn o'er their repose, who warn
The musing idler, and the man of care,—
The cradled babe,—gay youth,—and white-lock'd sire
That soon to this forgotten cell shall fleet
The shadow of their days.—Earth's most adored
Feel not upon their lifeless breasts the tear
Fast trickling o'er their grave;—nor does the clay
Unnamed,—unchronicled,—less sweetly sleep
Within its narrow house.—For all her sons,
With mournful sigh of hollow-breathing winds,
Soft vernal tears,—and drooping wintry boughs,
Impartial Nature mourns.
—Alas! how vain
The pride that lurks in gorgeous sepulchres,—
The pyramid,—the stain'd sarcophagus,
The tomb columnar. Still there is a life
That in our ashes lives,—a care that wakes
Around our mouldering bed,—and sweet it were
To think that o'er our pulseless hearts should rise
In hallow'd characters that Saviour's name
In whom we had believed,—and that the pen
Of truth might add—"Write!—blessed are the dead
Who die in Him."