The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Death
Death edit
I have been gazing on the resting place
Of the cold sleepers of the earth—who trod
This busy planet for a little space,
Then laid them down, and took the verdant sod
To curtain the low cot wherein they slept,
Forgotten save by some few hearts that o'er them wept.
'T is strange—so lately they were living forms,
Breathing and moving; now the vernal sun
Looks down upon their silent graves, nor warms
One pulse to action—life with them is done;
And the turf blooms as quietly, as though
No forms of human mould were slumbering below.
And this shall be my lot!—a little while,
And I shall, too, lie down and be at rest,
In silence and in darkness; earth will smile
In spring's rich garniture, and o'er my breast
The wild-flower shed its sweets—but there will be
No gladness in bright hues or fragrant breath for me.
Oh, Death! they call thee terrible—but life
Hath pain, and blighted hopes and bitter tears,
The pang of keen remorse, the daily strife
'Twixt jarring passions, the false smile that sears
The heart to kindly feelings, and the dread,
That e'en what bliss is ours, within our grasp will fade.
Nor is it very dreadful to lie down
In momentary darkness, and awake
In a bright world of happiness, unknown,
And unimagined! But 't is sad to take
The last farewell of earthly things, and know
That we have left fond hearts to lingering years of woe.
And herein lies the bitterness—but when
The parting pang is over, need we fear
To tread thy narrow pathway—and cling then
To life's poor relics?—It is true, that here
We have bright moments, scenes and hours of joy;
Yet seldom is our bliss unmix'd with some alloy.
It should be so—there is enough of bliss,
To make the hours of life glide swiftly on,
Yet sadness dims the brightest cup—and this
Recalls the heart from trusting what must soon
Forever vanish from our grasp, when we
Are call'd from things of time to dread eternity.