Who trim yon beds so neatly; and remove
Each withered leaf; and keep each straggling bough
In beautiful obedience?
—Come they back,
They of the by-gone days, when none are near,
And with their spirit-eyes inspect the flowers
That once they loved? Toil they in shadowy ranks
Mid these deserted bowers, then flit away?
They seem but just to have set the goblet down,
As for a moment, yet return no more.
The chair, the board, the couch of state are here,
And we, the intrusive step are fain to check,
As though we pressed upon their privacy.
Whose privacy? The dead? A riddle all!
And we ourselves are riddles.—
While we cling
Still to our crumbling hold, so soon to fall
And be forgotten, in that yawning gulph
That whelms all past, all present, all to come,
Oh, grant us wisdom, Father of the Soul,
To gain a changeless heritage with Thee.
Wednesday, October 7, 1840.
"a floating banner swayed
With the light breeze—"
The approach to Chatsworth is over gently rising
