I will invite thee, from thy envious herse
To rise, and 'bout the world thy beams to spread
That we may see there 's brightnesse in the dead.
HABINGTON.
It is a place where poets crown'd may feel the heart's decaying-
It is a place where happy saints may weep amid their praying-
Yet let the grief and humbleness as low as silence languish;
Earth surely now may give her calm to whom she gave her anguish.
O poets! from a maniac's tongue was pour'd the deathless singing!
O Christians! at your cross of hope a hopeless hand was clinging!
O men! this man in brotherhood, your weary paths beguiling,
Groan'd inly while he taught you peace, and died while ye were smiling!
And now, what time ye all may read through dimming tears his storyHow discord on the music fell, and darkness on the glory
And how, when, one by one, sweet sounds and wandering lights departed, He wore no less a loving face, because so broken-hearted.
He shall be strong to sanctify the poet's high vocation,
And bow the meekest Christian down in meeker adoration:
Nor ever shall he be in praise by wise or good forsaken;
Named softly, as the household name of one whom God hath taken!
With sadness that is calm, not gloom, I learn to think upon him;
With meekness that is gratefulness, on God, whose heaven hath won him-
Who suffer'd once the madness-cloud towards His love to blind him;
But gently led the blind along, where breath and bird could find him;
And wrought within his shatter'd brain such quick poetic senses,
As hills have language for, and stars harmonious influences!
The pulse of dew upon the grass his own did calmly number;
And silent shadow from the trees fell o'er him like a slumber.
The very world, by God's constraint, from falsehood's chill removing,
Its women and its men became beside him true and loving!—
And timid hares were drawn from woods to share his house-caresses,
Uplooking to his human eyes, with sylvan tendernesses.
But while in blindness he remain'd, unconscious of the guiding,
And things provided came without the sweet sense of providing,
He testified this solemn truth, though phrensy desolated,-
Nor man, nor nature satisfy whom only God created!
Like a sick child, that knoweth not his mother while she blesses,
And droppeth on his burning brow the coolness of her kisses;
That turns his fever'd eyes around-" My mother! where's my mother?"-
As if such tender words and looks could come from any other!
The fever gone, with leaps of heart he sees her bending o'er him;
Her face all pale from watchful love, the unweary love she bore him—
Thus, woke the poet from the dream his life's long fever gave him,
Beneath those deep pathetic eyes which closed in death to save him!
Thus! oh, not thus! no type of earth could image that awaking,
Wherein he scarcely heard the chant of seraphs round him breaking—
Or felt the new immortal throb of soul from body parted;
But felt those eyes alone, and knew "my Saviour not deserted!"
Deserted! who hath dreamt that when the cross in darkness rested,
Upon the victim's hidden face no love was manifested?
What frantic hands outstretch'd have e'er the atoning drops averted— What tears have wash'd them from the soul-that one should be deserted?
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