Poems (Eckley)/The Funeral

by Sophia May Eckley

THE FUNERAL.

 

1861.

USH! thoughtless souls! tread lightly here,
 Ye in this softly silver'd gloom,
For mark—the mourners bear a bier
 In slow procession to the tomb.

The pines are veiled in frozen mist;
 And now a shivering dreary breath
Stifles this sad eventful year
 In funeral pall of night and death.

The shrubs are gemmed with glittering beads,
 Stark and undraped an hour ago,
Now dazed with spangles,—e'en the moss
 Is crystallized with jewelled snow.

Why mourn ye o'er the vanish'd dead,
 Why crape your souls in weeds of woe?
Not so does nature in her grief,
 Express her anguish, no! ah, no!

'Tis then the king his casket breaks,
 Encrusts the leaves with frozen dews,
Bespangles grass and holly spray;
 Nor shrubs, nor weeds, the favors lose;

Shimmering the edge of ivy leaf,
 With studded border, frail as fair,
Fluffing the hardy berries till
 They spring erect in frosty air;

Decking the fir and forest pine,
 Each in state with an icy crown,
The funeral larch with silver plume,
 To light the cloud this death has thrown—

Folding the ground in ermine white,
 The robes of winter's king laid down
For the mourners' slow procession,
 As they bear the black coffin on.

Who is dead? asks a passer by—
 Hush! for it is the old year's gone—
Dolefully chant the choristers,
 As the bier moves slowly on.

But a wreath is laid on the coffin,
 Why is this? asks the passer by—
These silver flowers of woven frost,
 Our by-past freedom typify.

But who is dead? repeats the voice—
 Dead, dead! O sad eventful year,
Let frozen mist, and aching hearts
 Deck the gloom of thy sepulchre.

Is this a dream—a fancy sketch
 That comes to me thro' frosty pane?
No! 'tis the death of the vanish'd year,
 Tears cannot bring it back again.

The pane is etched with mimic trees,
 Fir, pine—like threads of glitt'ring glass
Are frozen rills, and winding paths,
 With tiny bush, and crispy grass.

The picture faints,—I turn away—
 Fret the blaze of the sea-coal bright,
And in my shadowy parlour grey,
 Sigh as the old year says good-night.

Weep, mourners, weep,—aye, let your tears
 Drench, and drown the lonely bier,
Let surge of sorrow's wildest grief
 Bury this sad eventful year.

O God, my nation calls too late,
 But deign, O deign to hear that call;
Thou, who dost hear the ravens cry,
 Dost count each sparrow in its fall—

Look down in pity on Thy dust,
 Through Christ alone we call it Thine;
'Tis frail and sinful, but O God,
 Christ made this human dust Divine.

And while we mourn this vanish'd year,
 May sins of nations be forgiven,
Pity Thy dust Humanity,
 And draw us nearer to Thy Heaven.