The Cathedral tombs
THEY lie, with upraised hands, and feet
Stretched like dead feet that walk no more,
And stony masks oft human sweet,
As if the olden look each wore,
Familiar curves of lip and eye,
Were wrought by some fond memory.
All waiting: the new-coffined dead,
The handful of mere dust that lies
Sarcophagused in stone and lead
Under the weight of centuries:
Knight, cardinal, bishop, abbess mild,
With last week's buried year-old child.
After the tempest cometh peace,
After long travail sweet repose;
These folded palms, these feet that cease
From any motion, are but shows
Of--what? What rest? How rest they? Where?
The generations naught declare.
Dark grave, unto whose brink we come,
Drawn nearer by all nights and days;
Each after each, thy solemn gloom
We pierce with momentary gaze,
Then go, unwilling or content,
The way that all our fathers went.
Is there no voice or guiding hand
Arising from the awful void,
To say, 'Fear not the silent land;
Would He make aught to be destroyed?
Would He? or can He? What know we
Of Him who is Infinity?
Strong Love, which taught us human love,
Helped us to follow through all spheres
Some soul that did sweet dead lips move,
Lived in dear eyes in smiles and tears,
Love--once so near our flesh allied,
That 'Jesus wept' when Lazarus died;--
Eagle-eyed Faith that can see God,
In worlds without and heart within;
In sorrow by the smart o' the rod,
In guilt by the anguish of the sin;
In everything pure, holy, fair,
God saying to man's soul, 'I am there';--
These only, twin-archangels, stand
Above the abyss of common doom,
These only stretch the tender hand
To us descending to the tomb,
Thus making it a bed of rest
With spices and with odors drest.
So, like one weary and worn, who sinks
To sleep beneath long faithful eyes,
Who asks no word of love, but drinks
The silence which is paradise--
We only cry--'Keep angelward,
And give us good rest, O good Lord!'
poem by Dinah Maria Mulock Craik
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Related quotes
Children's Playground In The City
THIS is a place where men laid their dead,
Each with his life-tale of good or ill;
Here prayers were murmured and hot tears shed,
And passionate anguish moaned its fill.
Silent now is each voice that cried,
And the tears that were wept have all been dried
In the dust; and dust are the hearts that bled
With hopeless longing for hearts grown still.
Dead and forgotten! for Death, requiter
Of love, taught Memory how to forget!
The love that remembered them died. Grow brighter,
Oh, dim grave-garden, with dead hearts set!
Room for the small flying feet to pass,
The feet of the children over the grass!
The dead, if they knew it, would feel them lighter
Than the weight of a stone that no tears make wet.
We must die too, and the grief that will live
Must die as surely--death comes to all;
But you who come after--let Nature give
To our graves her tears, to our dust her pall:
Let her hide us away in her cold broad breast,
Let us be forgotten, and be at rest,
And over our heads let the great world strive,
And the children's voices carol and call.
If your heart on the flower of remembrance is set,
There is one way to pluck it--and only one:
Dare you ask your country not to forget
A name that needs to be graved on stone?
By grief, strife, sacrifice, scorn of fame,
You may grave on the people's hearts your name,
Or your name may die, and your soul live yet
In the cause you died for--the work you have done.
poem by Edith Nesbit
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Mater Tenebrarum
In the endless nights, from my bed, where sleepless in anguish I lie,
I startle the stillness and gloom with a bitter and strong cry:
0 Love! 0 Beloved long lost! come down from thy Heaven above,
For my heart is wasting and dying in uttermost famine for love!
Come down for a moment! oh, come! Come serious and mild
And pale, as thou wert on this earth, thou adorable Child!
Or come as thou art, with thy sanctitude, triumph and bliss,
For a garment of glory about thee; and give me one kiss,
One tender and pitying look of thy tenderest eyes,
One word of solemn assurance and truth that
the soul with its love never dies!
In the endless nights, from my bed, where sleepless in frenzy I lie,
I cleave through the crushing gloom with a bitter and deadly cry:
Oh! where have they taken my Love from our Eden
of bliss on this earth?
Which now is a frozen waste of sepulchral and horrible dearth?
Have they killed her indeed? Is her soul as her body, which long
Has moldered away in the dust where the foul worms throng?
O'er what abhorrent Lethes, to what remotest star,
Is she rapt away from my pursuit through cycles and systems far?
She is dead, she is utterly dead; for her life would hear and speed
To the wild imploring cry of my heart that cries in its dreadful need.
In the endless nights, on my bed, where sleeplessly brooding I lie,
I burden the heavy gloom with a bitter an weary sigh:
No hope in this worn-out world, no hope beyond the tomb;
No living and loving God, but blind and stony Doom.
Anguish and grief and sin, terror, disease, and despair:
Why throw not off this life, this garment of torture I wear,
And go down to sleep in the grave in everlasting rest?
What keeps me yet in this life., what spark in my frozen breast?
A fire of dread, 'a light of hope, kindled, 0 Love, by thee;
For thy pure and gentle and beautiful soul, it must immortal be.
poem by James Thomson
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I'll Sleep When I Am Dead
J. Bon Jovi, R. Sambora, D. Child)
Seven days of saturday
Is all that I need
Got no use for Sunday
'Cause I don't rest in peace
Don't need no Mondays
Or the rest of the week
I spend a lot of time in bed
But baby I don't like to sleep no
I won't lie to you
I'm necer gonna cry to you
I'll probably drive you wild 8 days a week
Until I'm 6 feet under
Baby I don't need a bed
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
Till they roll me over
And lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
So you're looking for some action
I got got everything you need
Better keep your motor running
'cause I was built for speed
This ain't no slumber party
Got no time for catching z's
If they say that that ain't healthy
Well then living's a disease
We're never going to die baby
Come on let me drive you crazy
We'll make every night another New Year's Eve
Till I'm six feet under
I won't need a bed
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
Till they roll me over
And lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
Sleep when I'm dead, sleep when I'm dead
Gonna live while I'm alive,
I'll sleep when I'm dead
Seven days of Saturday
Is all that I need
Got no use for Sunday
'Cause I don't rest in peace
I was born to live
You know I wasn't born to die
But if they party down in heaven
I'll be sure to be on time
Until I'm six feet under
I don't need a bed
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
Till they roll me over
And lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
I feel like I'm exploding
Going out of my head
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
Till I'm six feet under
And they lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while I'm alive
I'll sleep when I'm dead
Sleep when I'm dead, sleep when I'm dead
Gonna live while I'm alive, sleep when I'm dead
song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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At A Funeral
I loved her too, this woman who is dead.
Look in my face. I have a right to go
And see the place where you have made her bed
Among the snow.
I loved her too whom you are burying.
I have a right to stand beside her bier,
And to my handful of the dust I fling,
That she may hear.
I loved her; and it was not for the eyes
Which you have shut, nor for her yellow hair,
Nor for the face which in your bosom lies.
Let it lie there!
Nor for the wild--birds' music of her voice,
Which we shall hear in dreams till we too sleep;
Nor for the rest, which made the world rejoice,
The angels weep.
It was not for the payment of sweet love,
Though love is often straitened for a kiss,
Nor for the hope of other joys above,
But only this,
That she had laid her hand upon my heart
Once in the summer time when we were young,
And that her finger--tips had left a smart,
And that my tongue
Had spoken words which might not be unspoken
Lest they should make a by--word of love's truth,
And I had sworn that love should be the token
Of my youth.
And so I gave her all, and long ago
The treasure of my youth was put in pawn;
And she was little richer that I know
When that was gone.
But I have lived a beggar since that day
And hide my face it may be from men's eyes;
For often I have seen them shrink away,
As in surprise
That such a loathsome cripple should be found
To walk abroad in daylight with the rest,
And scarce a rag to cover up the wound
Upon his breast.
Yet no man stopped to ask how this might be,
Or I had scared them, and let loose my tongue,
How I had bought myself this misery
When I was young.
Yet I have loved her. This must be my pay,
The pension I have earned me with these tears;
The right to kneel beside her grave to--day,
Despite these years,
With all her kisses burning on my cheek,
As when I left her and our love was dead,
And our lips trembled though they did not speak,
The night I fled;
The right to bid you stand aside, nor be
A witness of our meeting. Did you love
In joy as I have loved in misery?
You did not prove
Your love was stronger than the strength of death,
Or she had never died upon your hand.
I would have fed her breathing with my breath;
I would have fanned
A living wind of Heaven to her lips;
I would have stolen life from Paradise.
And she is dead, and you have seen eclipse
Within those eyes.
If I could know that you had loved her well;
If I could hold it for a certainty
That you had sold your life as I did sell;
If I could see
The blackness of your soul, and with my tongue
Taste the full bitterness of tears unshed;
If I should find your very heart was wrung
And maimed and dead;
If I should feel your hand's grasp crumble mine,
And hug the pain when I should grasp in turn;
If I could dip my fingers in the brine
Of eyes that burn;
If I could hear your voice call back the dead
With such a mighty cry of agony
That she should turn and listen in the bed
Where she doth lie,
And all the heavens should together roll,
Thinking they heard the angel's trumpet tone,
I could forget it that you bought a soul
Which was my own;
I could forget that she forgot her vows,
That aught was bartered for the wealth of love;
I could untell the story of my woes,
Till God above
Should hold her guiltless and condone the wrong
Done to His justice; I could take your hand
And call you brother, as we went along
To take our stand
Before His judgment--seat with her again
Where we are hurrying,--for we could not keep
Our place unchallenged in the ranks of men
Who do not weep.
poem by Wilfrid Scawen Blunt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Pilgrims
Who is your lady of love, O ye that pass
Singing? and is it for sorrow of that which was
That ye sing sadly, or dream of what shall be?
For gladly at once and sadly it seems ye sing.
--Our lady of love by you is unbeholden;
For hands she hath none, nor eyes, nor lips, nor golden
Treasure of hair, nor face nor form; but we
That love, we know her more fair than anything.
--Is she a queen, having great gifts to give?
--Yea, these; that whoso hath seen her shall not live
Except he serve her sorrowing, with strange pain,
Travail and bloodshedding and bitterer tears;
And when she bids die he shall surely die.
And he shall leave all things under the sky
And go forth naked under sun and rain
And work and wait and watch out all his years.
--Hath she on earth no place of habitation?
--Age to age calling, nation answering nation,
Cries out, Where is she? and there is none to say;
For if she be not in the spirit of men,
For if in the inward soul she hath no place,
In vain they cry unto her, seeking her face,
In vain their mouths make much of her; for they
Cry with vain tongues, till the heart lives again.
--O ye that follow, and have ye no repentance?
For on your brows is written a mortal sentence,
An hieroglyph of sorrow, a fiery sign,
That in your lives ye shall not pause or rest,
Nor have the sure sweet common love, nor keep
Friends and safe days, nor joy of life nor sleep.
--These have we not, who have one thing, the divine
Face and clear eyes of faith and fruitful breast.
--And ye shall die before your thrones be won.
--Yea, and the changed world and the liberal sun
Shall move and shine without us, and we lie
Dead; but if she too move on earth and live,
But if the old world with all the old irons rent
Laugh and give thanks, shall we be not content?
Nay, we shall rather live, we shall not die,
Life being so little and death so good to give.
--And these men shall forget you.--Yea, but we
Shall be a part of the earth and the ancient sea,
And heaven-high air august, and awful fire,
And all things good; and no man's heart shall beat
But somewhat in it of our blood once shed
Shall quiver and quicken, as now in us the dead
Blood of men slain and the old same life's desire
Plants in their fiery footprints our fresh feet.
--But ye that might be clothed with all things pleasant,
Ye are foolish that put off the fair soft present,
That clothe yourselves with the cold future air;
When mother and father and tender sister and brother
And the old live love that was shall be as ye,
Dust, and no fruit of loving life shall be.
--She shall be yet who is more than all these were,
Than sister or wife or father unto us or mother.
--Is this worth life, is this, to win for wages?
Lo, the dead mouths of the awful grey-grown ages,
The venerable, in the past that is their prison,
In the outer darkness, in the unopening grave,
Laugh, knowing how many as ye now say have said,
How many, and all are fallen, are fallen and dead:
Shall ye dead rise, and these dead have not risen?
--Not we but she, who is tender and swift to save.
--Are ye not weary and faint not by the way,
Seeing night by night devoured of day by day,
Seeing hour by hour consumed in sleepless fire?
Sleepless: and ye too, when shall ye too sleep?
--We are weary in heart and head, in hands and feet,
And surely more than all things sleep were sweet,
Than all things save the inexorable desire
Which whoso knoweth shall neither faint nor weep.
--Is this so sweet that one were fain to follow?
Is this so sure where all men's hopes are hollow.
Even this your dream, that by much tribulation
Ye shall make whole flawed hearts, and bowed necks straight?
--Nay, though our life were blind, our death were fruitless,
Not therefore were the whole world's high hope rootless;
But man to man, nation would turn to nation,
And the old life live, and the old great world be great.
--Pass on then and pass by us and let us be,
For what light think ye after life to see?
And if the world fare better will ye know?
And if man triumph who shall seek you and say?
--Enough of light is this for one life's span,
That all men born are mortal, but not man:
And we men bring death lives by night to sow,
That man may reap and eat and live by day.
poem by Algernon Charles Swinburne
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The Dead Singer
'SHE is dead!' they say; 'she is robed for the grave; O there are lilies upon her breast;
Her mother has kissed her clay-cold lips, and folded her hands to rest;
Her blue eyes show through the waxen lids: they have hidden her hair's gold crown;
Her grave is dug, and its heap of earth is waiting to press her down.'
'She is dead!' they say to the people, her people, for whom she sung;
Whose hearts she touched with sorrow and love, like a harp with life-chords strung.
And the people hear—but behind their tear they smile as though they heard
Another voice, like a mystery, proclaim another word.
'She is not dead.' it says to their hearts; 'true Singers can never die;
Their life is a voice of higher things, unseen to the common eye;
The truths and the beauties are clear to them, God's right and the human wrong,
The heroes who die unknown, and the weak who are chained and scourged by the strong.'
And the people smile at the death-word, for the mystic voice is clear:
'THE SINGER WHO LIVED IS ALWAYS ALIVE: WE HEARKEN AND ALWAYS HEAR!'
And they raise her body with tender hands, and bear her down to the main,
They lay her in state on the mourning ship, like the lily-maid Elaine;
And they sail to her isle across the sea, where the people wait on the shore
To lift her in silence with heads all bare to her home forevermore,
Her home in the heart of her country; oh, a grave among our own
Is warmer and dearer than living on in the stranger lands alone.
No need of a tomb for the Singer! Her fair hair's pillow now
Is the sacred clay of her country, and the sky above her brow
Is the same that smiled and wept on her youth, and the grass around is deep
With the clinging leaves of the shamrock that cover her peaceful sleep.
Undreaming there she will rest and wait, in the tomb her people make,
Till she hears men's hearts, like the seeds in Spring, all stirring to be awake,
Till she feels the moving of souls that strain till the bands around them break;
And then, I think, her dead lips will smile and her eyes be oped to see,
When the cry goes out to the Nations that the Singer's land is free!
poem by John Boyle O'Reilly
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To Olinthus Gregory, On Hearing Of The Death Of His Eldest Son, Who Was Drowned As He Was Returning By Water To His Father’s House At Woolrich
IS there a spot where Pity's foot,
Although unsandalled, fears to tread,
A silence where her voice is mute,
Where tears, and only tears, are shed?
It is the desolated home
Where Hope was yet a recent guest,
Where Hope again may never come,
Or come, and only speak of rest.
They gave my hand the pictured scroll,
And bade me only fancy there
A parent's agony of soul,
A parent's long and last despair;
The sunshine on the sudden wave,
Which closed above the youthful head,
Mocking the green and quiet grave,
Which waits the time-appointed dead.
I thought upon the lone fire-side,
Begirt with all familiar thought,
The future, where a father's pride
So much from present promise wrought:
The sweet anxiety of fears,
Anxious from love's excess alone,
The fond reliance upon years
More precious to us than our own:
All past—then weeping words there came
From out a still and darkened room,
They could not bear to name a name
Written so newly on the tomb.
They said he was so good and kind,
The voices sank, the eyes grew dim;
So much of love he left behind,
So much of life had died with him.
Ah, pity for the long beloved,
Ah, pity for the early dead;
The young, the promising, removed
Ere life a light or leaf had shed.
Nay, rather pity those whose doom
It is to wait and weep behind,
The father, who within the tomb
Sees all life held most dear enshrined.
poem by Letitia Elizabeth Landon
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The Queen Of Prussia's Tomb
In sweet pride upon that insult keen
She smiled; then drooping mute and broken-hearted,
To the cold comfort of the grave departed. ~ Milman.
It stands where northern willows weep,
A temple fair and lone;
Soft shadows o'er its marble sweep,
From cypress-branches thrown;
While silently around it spread,
Thou feel'st the presence of the dead.
And what within is richly shrined?
A sculptur'd woman's form,
Lovely in perfect rest reclined,
As one beyond the storm:
Yet not of death, but slumber, lies
The solemn sweetness on those eyes.
The folded hands, the calm pure face,
The mantle's quiet flow,
The gentle, yet majestic grace,
Throned on the matron brow;
These, in that scene of tender gloom,
With a still glory robe the tomb.
There stands an eagle, at the feet
Of the fair image wrought;
A kingly emblem–nor unmeet
To wake yet deeper thought:
She whose high heart finds rest below,
Was royal in her birth and wo.
There are pale garlands hung above,
Of dying scent and hue;–
She was a mother–in her love
How sorrowfully true!
Oh! hallow'd long be every leaf,
The record of her children's grief!
She saw their birthright's warrior-crown
Of olden glory spoil'd,
The standard of their sires borne down,
The shield's bright blazon soil'd:
She met the tempest meekly brave,
Then turn'd o'erwearied to the grave.
She slumber'd; but it came–it came,
Her land's redeeming hour,
With the glad shout, and signal flame
Sent on from tower to tower!
Fast thro' the realm a spirit moved–
'Twas hers, the lofty and the loved.
Then was her name a note that wrung
To rouse bold hearts from sleep;
Her memory, as a banner flung
Forth by the Baltic deep;
Her grief, a bitter vial pour'd
To sanctify th' avenger's sword.
And the crown'd eagle spread again
His pinion to the sun;
And the strong land shook off its chain–
So was the triumph won!
But wo for earth, where sorrow's tone
Still blends with victory's!–She was gone!
poem by Felicia Dorothea Hemans
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Consolation
She folded up the worn and mended frock,
And smoothed it tenderly upon her knee,
Then through the soft web of a wee red sock
She wove the bright wool, musing thoughtfully:
'Can this be all? The outside world so fair,
I hunger for its green and pleasant ways;
A cripple prisoned in her restless chair
Looks from her window with a wistful gaze.
'The fruits I cannot reach are red and sweet,
The paths forbidden are both green and wide;
O God! there is no boon to helpless feet
So altogether sweet as paths denied.
Home is most fair; bright all my household fires,
And children are a gift without alloy;
But who would bound the field of their desires
By the prim hedges of mere fireside joy?
'I can but weave a faint thread to and fro,
Making a frail wolf in my baby's sock;
Into the world's sweet tumult I would go,
At its strong gates my trembling hand would knock.'
Just then the children came, the father too;
Their eager faces lit the twilight gloom;
'Dear heart,' he whispered, as he nearer drew,
'How sweet it is within this little room!
'God puts my strongest comfort here to draw
When thirst is great and common wells are dry.
Your pure desire is my unerring law,
Tell me, dear one, who is so safe as I?
Home is the pasture where my soul may feed,
This room a paradise has grown to be;
And only where these patient feet shall lead
Can it be home to these dear ones and me.'
He touched with reverend hand the helpless feet,
The children crowded close and kissed her hair.
'Our mother is so good, and kind, and sweet,
There's not another like her anywhere!'
The baby in her low bed opened wide
The soft blue flowers of her timid eyes,
And viewed the group about the cradle-side
With smiles of glad and innocent surprise.
The mother drew the baby to her knee,
And, smiling, said: 'The stars shine soft tonight;
My world is fair; its edges sweet to me,
And whatsoever is, dear Lord, is right.'
poem by Anonymous Americas
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Draxy's Hymn
I cannot think but God must know
About the thing I long for so;
I know He is so good, so kind,
I cannot think but He will find
Some way to help, some way to show
Me to the thing I long for so.
I stretch my hand-it lies so near:
It looks so sweet, it looks so dear.
'Dear Lord,' I pray, 'Oh, let me know
If it is wrong to want it so?'
He only smiles-He does not speak:
My heart grows weaker and more weak,
With looking at the thing so dear,
Which lies so far, and yet so near.
Now, Lord, I leave at thy loved feet
This thing which looks so near, so sweet;
I will not seek, I will not long-
almost fear I have been wrong.
I'll go, and work the harder, Lord,
And wait till by some loud, clear word
Thou callest me to thy loved feet,
To take this thing so dear, so sweet.
poem by Helen Hunt Jackson
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Heart Choices
All that I need is a willing heart, and The Lord will do all the rest,
Heeding His Word at the start, He will help me through any test.
My faith in The Lord is my part, as He helps me to do my best,
As God’s Spirit does not depart, giving me His peace and rest.
Dear friend, when I begin my day, after a long and restful night,
Heeding all His Word does say, it is for me God’s guiding Light,
Should darkness fall on the way, in His Spirit He gives me sight,
Guiding these fragile feet of clay; on a path with Him that’s right.
The Lord guides me with His Hand, as I journey through this life,
Helping me take a stable stand, to be strong in Him during strife,
Strife we can face in any land, where man’s darkness can be rife,
At that time I again understand, I get all peace from Jesus Christ.
In a world of so many voices, I simply choose to follow but one,
Helping me with all my choices; that voice is God’s Eternal Son,
In a land which seldom rejoices, we have joy that is not from fun,
It’s all about eternal choices, through His joy, that has just begun.
And, this all began in my heart, which The Lord has truly blessed,
When I was put on the Narrow Way, guided by The Savior’s Light,
And securely now in God’s Hand, placed in there by Jesus Christ,
In God’s Family, which rejoices, since we know, The Father’s Son.
Death Poem
My life on earth was very good,
So don't grieve for me with tears.
Just remember the love we once had,
And bury sorrow without pain and fears.
Miss me a little-but not too long,
Hold no rites in a gloom-filled room.
The sun has set for me by God's plan,
And now I travel the long road home.
This sublime journey we all must take,
And each of us must take it alone.
Jesus has provided a place for me,
And with Him I will walk in peace.
Though my time with you was short,
Now there's only love that'll never cease.
On the road to sweet eternal rest,
A path my God has laid for me,
To perfect peace given only by the Best,
My soul goes on to taste and see.
My heart prays that I ace the test,
So as to claim the crown of the free.
Now if my parting has left a void,
Then fill it in with remembered pleasures.
But do not stand at my grave and weep,
For I go to a land of endless treasures.
Think of me now as the vernal rain,
See me in the stars that no one measures.
My soul flutters in the sun on ripened grain,
And whispers God's praise in the wind.
I've gone where love and joy is forever new,
And where the gentlest lights never end.
poem by Albert Price
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Like A Butterfly
In my boyhood,
So sweet so lovely;
Like an eagle with its meteor eyes.
This pilot is guiding me,
This love is my hope;
Like a swarm of golden bees.
Of my unseen feet,
Of your unseen feet,
Of his unseen feet,
Of her unseen feet,
From Cape to Cape;
I am lured by the love of my growth.
Of a world so fair,
Eyes have not seen it;
It is like life beyond the tomb of love.
Ears have not heard its deep songs of joy,
This land is full of harvest;
But another race has filled it.
In silence and in fear like,
The banners up high in the sky;
Living in a better land as expected but,
A little weeping will ease my heart.
Another joy has come like,
The anthem of freed Slaves;
Where i do hear you speak like the long Amazon River.
Quiet as a stone,
A thing of beauty is of a joy;
Like a bed of straw in my boyhood,
Of the days gone by like a butterfly.
poem by Edward Kofi Louis
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Fidele's Grassy Tomb
The Squire sat propped in a pillowed chair,
His eyes were alive and clear of care,
But well he knew that the hour was come
To bid good-bye to his ancient home.
He looked on garden, wood, and hill,
He looked on the lake, sunny and still:
The last of earth that his eyes could see
Was the island church of Orchardleigh.
The last that his heart could understand
Was the touch of the tongue that licked his hand:
'Bury the dog at my feet,' he said,
And his voice dropped, and the Squire was dead.
Now the dog was a hound of the Danish breed,
Staunch to love and strong at need:
He had dragged his master safe to shore
When the tide was ebbing at Elsinore.
From that day forth, as reason would,
He was named 'Fidele,' and made it good:
When the last of the mourners left the door
Fidele was dead on the chantry floor.
They buried him there at his master's feet,
And all that heard of it deemed it meet:
The story went the round for years,
Till it came at last to the Bishop's ears.
Bishop of Bath and Wells was he,
Lord of the lords of Orchardleigh;
And he wrote to the Parson the strongest screed
That Bishop may write or Parson read.
The sum of it was that a soulless hound
Was known to be buried in hallowed ground:
From scandal sore the Church to save
They must take the dog from his masters grave.
The heir was far in a foreign land,
The Parson was wax to my Lord's command:
He sent for the Sexton and bade him make
A lonely grave by the shore of the lake.
The Sexton sat by the water's brink
Where he used to sit when he used to think:
He reasoned slow, but he reasoned it out,
And his argument left him free from doubt.
'A Bishop,' he said, 'is the top of his trade:
But there's others can give him a start with the spade:
Yon dog, he carried the Squire ashore,
And a Christian couldn't ha' done no more.
The grave was dug; the mason came
And carved on stone Fidele's name;
But the dog that the Sexton laid inside
Was a dog that never had lived or died.
So the Parson was praised,and the scandal stayed,
Till, a long time after, the church decayed,
And, laying the floor anew, they found
In the tomb of the Squire the bones of a hound.
As for the Bishop of Bath and Wells
No more of him the story tells;
Doubtless he lived as a Prelate and Prince,
And died and was buried a century since.
And whether his view was right or wrong
Has little to do with this my song;
Something we owe him, you must allow;
And perhaps he has changed his mind by now.
The Squire in the family chantry sleeps,
The marble still his memory keeps:
Remember, when the name you spell,
There rest Fidele's bones as well.
For the Sexton's grave you need not search,
'Tis a nameless mound by the island church:
An ignorant fellow, of humble lot---
But. he knew one thing that a Bishop did not.
poem by Sir Henry Newbolt
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Laus Deo
IN the hall the coffin waits, and the idle armourer stands.
At his belt the coffin nails, and the hammer in his hands.
The bed of state is hung with crape--the grand old bed where she was
wed--
And like an upright corpse she sitteth gazing dumbly at the bed.
Hour by hour her serving-men enter by the curtain'd door,
And with steps of muffled woe pass breathless o'er the silent floor,
And marshal mutely round, and look from each to each with eyelids red;
'Touch him not,' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'
'O my own dear mistress,' the ancient Nurse did say,
'Seven long days and seven long nights you have watch'd him where he
lay.'
'Seven long days and seven long nights,' the hoary Steward said;
'Seven long days and seven long nights,' groan'd the Warrener gray;
'Seven,' said the old Henchman, and bow'd his aged head;
'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'
Then a father Priest they sought,
The Priest that taught her all she knew,
And they told him of her loss.
'For she is mild and sweet of will,
She loved him, and his words are peace,
And he shall heal her ill.'
But her watch she did not cease.
He bless'd her where she sat distraught,
And show'd her holy cross,--
The cross she kiss'd from year to year--
But she neither saw nor heard;
And said he in her deaf ear
All he had been wont to teach,
All she had been fond to hear,
Missall'd prayer, and solemn speech,
But she answer'd not a word.
Only when he turn'd to speak with those who wept about the bed,
'On your lives!' she shriek'd and cried, 'he is but newly dead!'
Then how sadly he turn'd from her, it were wonderful to tell,
And he stood beside the death-bed as by one who slumbers well,
And he lean'd o'er him who lay there, and in cautious whisper low,
'He is not dead, but sleepeth,' said the Priest, and smooth'd his
brow.
'Sleepeth?' said she, looking up, and the sun rose in her face!
'He must be better than I thought, for the sleep is very sound.'
'He is better,' said the Priest, and call'd her maidens round.
With them came that ancient dame who nursed her when a child;
O Nurse!' she sigh'd, 'O Nurse!' she cried 'O Nurse!' and then she
smiled,
And then she wept; with that they drew
About her, as of old;
Her dying eyes were sweet and blue,
Her trembling touch was cold;
But she said, 'My maidens true,
No more weeping and well-away;
Let them kill the feast.
I would be happy in my soul.
"He is better," saith the Priest;
He did but sleep the weary day,
And will waken whole.
Carry me to his dear side,
And let the halls be trim;
Whistly, whistly,' said she,
'I am wan with watching and wail,
He must not wake to see me pale,
Let me sleep with him.
See you keep the tryst for me,
I would rest till he awake
And rise up like a bride.
But whistly, whistly!' said she.
'Yet rejoice your Lord doth live;
And for His dear sake
Say Laus, Domine.'
Silent they cast down their eyes,
And every breast a sob did rive,
She lifted her in wild surprise
And they dared not disobey.
'Laus Deo,' said the Steward, hoary when her days were new;
'Laus Deo,' said the Warrener, whiter than the warren snows;
'Laus Deo,' the bald Henchman, who had nursed her on his knee.
The old Nurse moved her lips in vain,
And she stood among the train
Like a dead tree shaking dew.
Then the Priest he softly stept
Midway in the little band,
And he took the Lady's hand.
'Laus Deo,' he said aloud,
'Laus Deo,' they said again,
Yet again, and yet again,
Humbly cross'd and lowly bow'd,
Till in wont and fear it rose
To the Sabbath strain.
But she neither turn'd her head
Nor 'Whistly, whistly,' said she.
Her hands were folded as in grace,
We laid her with her ancient race
And all the village wept.
poem by Sydney Thompson Dobell
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Skylark's Message
SWEET little upturned faces,
Poor little hands and feet,
Little eyes that are careworn and anxious
From hunger and want in the street,
Hear ye that skylark singing
5
Like an angel far away?
'Tis bringing to you a message
From the Golden Gates of day.
Ah, little know ye of the meadows,
Poor little blistered feet,
10
Down in the smoke of the city,
Down in the noise of the street!
But it sings of a better country,
Where tired little hearts can rest;
Of a sun that shines for ever,
15
And the love of a Father's breast.
O poor little weary spirits,
I would that ye knew its song,
For the world is very heartless,
And your journey may be long;
20
And ye need such heavenly music
To cheer you in the night,
Little hearts that are now so noble,
Little souls that are now so white.
I would that ye heard it always,
25
That sweet bird's voice within,
When the heart is sad and lonely
In the long, long struggle with sin;
Till a rest comes out of the sunset
For the labouring hands and feet,
30
And a silence has fallen for ever
On the noise and the dust of the street.
poem by Frederick George Scott
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Good Night
1.
Love, thou hast wandered far and wide,
But here thy wanderings cease;
Thy long- sought mate is by thy side,
And thou canst sleep in peace.
2.
Night moans outside our window- pane,
And weeps from dripping eaves;
The air is thick with falling rain
Upon dead autumn leaves.
3.
The winds of winter rave and chafe
Around thy tranquil nest,
But I am here, and thou art safe —
Thy very soul may rest.
4.
The wild surf- thunder swells and falls
Upon the seething beach —
Thy world within thy chamber- walls
Nor winds nor waves can reach.
5.
Sleep, fired eyes! Sleep well, dear heart,
That ached so long for me!
No sudden hand shall tear apart
These arms that shelter thee
6.
Sleep well, though late- found joys be brief,
And bought with tears and pain;
Shut out the memory of thy grief —
Thou didst not grieve in vain.
7.
Think of our treasure, kept in store,
And not the price it cost —
Those precious years, that come no more,
Which thou and I have lost.
8.
O, wasted years, that lie behind
Hush — what is past is past.
Enough that we have lived to find
What life is worth at last.
9.
Though Fate has robbed us of so much,
We know not what we miss;
All ills are recompensed in such
A priceless good as this.
10.
Sleep,dear! The hours are passing on —
The midnight bells have tolled;
Think not how much of life is gone,
But how much more we hold.
11.
Yes, more — as wise men reckon life —
Though no wise man can tell
How soon, for husband and for wife,
The stroke of doom will knell.
12.
No echo of that solemn chime
Break through thy perfect peace!
No forecast of that awful time
When time for us will cease:
13.
When happier worlds shall shine in space,
For other eyes to see,
And none have any more a place
For thy true love and thee.
14.
Be blind to all, and deaf, and dumb,
In thy quick heart's despite!
Content thee — though the end must come,
It will not come to- night.
15.
This night let never thought of ill
Disturb thy slumber deep;
To- morrow I shall have thee still,
So thou canst safely sleep:
16.
Reprieved from that appalling fear,
As from thy long regret —
Be our last parting far or near,
We have not reached it yet.
17.
Thy head lies pillowed on my breast —
My cheek upon thy brow —
Dear love, good night! Thou art at rest
From Past and Future now.
poem by Ada Cambridge
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ill Sleep When Im Dead
Seven days of saturday
Is all that I need
Got no use for sunday
cause I dont rest in peace
Dont need no mondays
Or the rest of the week
I spend a lot of time in bed
But baby I dont like to sleep no
I wont lie to you
Im never gonna cry to you
Ill probably drive you wild 8 days a week
Until Im 6 feet under
Baby I dont need a bed
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
Till they roll me over
And lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
So youre looking for some action
I got got everything you need
Better keep your motor running
cause I was built for speed
This aint no slumber party
Got no time for catching zs
If they say that that aint healthy
Well then livings a disease
Were never going to die baby
Come on let me drive you crazy
Well make every night another new years eve
Till Im six feet under
I wont need a bed
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
Till they roll me over
And lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
Sleep when Im dead, sleep when Im dead
Gonna live while Im alive,
Ill sleep when Im dead
Seven days of saturday
Is all that I need
Got no use for sunday
cause I dont rest in peace
I was born to live
You know I wasnt born to die
But if they party down in heaven
Ill be sure to be on time
Until Im six feet under
I dont need a bed
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
Till they roll me over
And lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
I feel like Im exploding
Going out of my head
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
Till Im six feet under
And they lay my bones to rest
Gonna live while Im alive
Ill sleep when Im dead
Sleep when Im dead, sleep when Im dead
Gonna live while Im alive, sleep when Im dead
song performed by by Bon Jovi
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Hope Dieth: Hope Liveth
Strong are thine arms, O love, & strong
Thine heart to live, and love, and long;
But thou art wed to grief and wrong:
Live, then, and long, though hope be dead!
Live on, & labour thro’ the years!
Make pictures through the mist of tears,
Of unforgotten happy fears,
That crossed the time ere hope was dead.
Draw near the place where once we stood
Amid delight’s swift-rushing flood,
And we and all the world seemed good
Nor needed hope now cold and dead.
Dream in the dawn I come to thee
Weeping for things that may not be!
Dream that thou layest lips on me!
Wake, wake to clasp hope’s body dead!
Count o’er and o’er, and one by one
The minutes of the happy sun
That while agone on kissed lips shone,
Count on, rest not, for hope is dead.
Weep, though no hair’s breadth thou shalt move
The living Earth, the heaven above
By all the bitterness of love!
Weep and cease not, now hope is dead!
Sighs rest thee not, tears bring no ease,
Life hath no joy, and Death no peace:
The years change not, though they decrease,
For hope is dead, for hope is dead.
Speak, love, I listen: far away
I bless the tremulous lips, that say,
“Mock not the afternoon of day,
Mock not the tide when hope is dead!”
I bless thee, O my love, who say’st:
“Mock not the thistle-cumbered waste;
I hold Love’s hand, and make no haste
Down the long way, now hope is dead.
With other names do we name pain,
The long years wear our hearts in vain.
Mock not our loss grown into gain,
Mock not our lost hope lying dead.
Our eyes gaze for no morning-star,
No glimmer of the dawn afar;
Full silent wayfarers we are
Since ere the noon-tide hope lay dead.
Behold with lack of happiness
The master, Love, our hearts did bless
Lest we should think of him the less:
Love dieth not, though hope is dead!”
poem by William Morris
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Watching
Like a beautiful face looking ever at me
A pure bright moon cometh over the sea;
And I stand on the crags, and hear the falls
Go tumbling down, through the black river-walls;
And the heart of the gorge is rent with the cry
Of the pent-up winds in their agony!
You are far from me, dear, where I watch and wait,
Like a weary bird for a long-lost mate,
And my life is as dull as the sluggish stream
Feeling its way through a world of dream;
For here is a waste of darkness and fear,
And I call and I call, but no one will hear!
O darling of mine, do you ever yearn
For a something lost, which will never return?
O darling of mine, on the grave of dead Hours,
Do you feel, like me, for a handful of flowers?
Through the glens of the Past, do you wander along,
Like a restless ghost that hath done a wrong?
And, lying alone, do you look from the drouth
Of a thirsty Life with a pleading mouth?
When the rain’s on the roof, and the gales are abroad,
Do you wash with your tears the feet of your God?
Oh! I know you do, and he sitteth alone,
Your wounded Love, while you mourn and moan —
Oh! I know you do, and he never will leap
From his silence with smiles, while you weep — and weep!
Your coolness shake down, ye gathered green leaves,
For my spirit is faint with the love that it grieves!
Is there aught on the summit, O yearner through Night,
Aught on the summit which looks like the light;
When my soul is a-wearied and lone in the land,
Groping around will it touch a kind hand?
There are chasms between us as black as a pall,
But bring us together, O God over all!
And let me cast from me these fetters of Fear,
When I hear the glad singing of Faith so near;
For I know by the cheeks, which are pallid and wet,
And a listening life we shall mingle yet!
Oh! then I will turn to those eloquent eyes,
And clasp thee close, with a sweet surprise;
And a guest will go in by the heart’s holy door,
And the chambers of Love shall be left no more.
poem by Henry Kendall
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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