Poetical Remains of the Late Mrs Hemans/The Funeral Genius, an Antique Statue
THE FUNERAL GENIUS,
AN ANTIQUE STATUE.
Thou shouldst be looked on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer air;
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls,
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare;—
And thou—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps which will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow, for so the dead
Were crowned of old, with pale spring-flowers like these;
Sleep on, thine eye hath sunk, yet softly shed,
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze;
And the pine-boughs o'ershadow thee with gloom
Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.
They feared not death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour had settled thus in thee;
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head upon the forest-tree,
As that of one, by music's dreamy close
On the wood-violets lulled to deep repose.
They feared not death! Yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much
Of tender beauty as thy features wear,
Thou Sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer lies?
Had they seen ought like thee? Did some fair boy
Thus with his graceful hair before them rest?
His graceful hair no more to wave in joy,
But drooping as with heavy dews opprest,
And his eyes veiled so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?
Oh, happy if to them the one dread hour,
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler's power,
Came by a look so tranquilly divine!
Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart!
But thou, fair slumberer!—was there less of woe,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old,
That men poured out their gladdening spirits flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold?
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we, for loftier faith is ours;
Their gems were lost in ashes—yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers;
With fragrant wreaths and summer-boughs arrayed
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
Is it for us a darker gloom to shed
On its dim precincts? Do we not entrust
But for a time its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?
Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touched the brow of Death.