Zinzendorff and Other Poems/Funeral of Dr. Mason F. Coggswell
FUNERAL OF DR. MASON F. COGGSWELL.
There was a throng within the temple-gates,
And more of sorrow on each thoughtful brow
Than seemed to fit the sacred day of praise.
Neighbor on neighbor gaz'd, and friend on friend,
Yet few saluted; for the sense of loss
Weigh'd heavy in each bosom. Even the dirge
Breath'd tremulous—for holy music moan'd
A smitten worshipper. Grave, aged men
Bow'd down their reverend heads in wondering woe,
That he who so retain'd the ardent smile
And step elastic of life's morning prime,
Should fall before them. Stricken at his side
Were friendships of no common fervency
Or brief endurance; for at his glad tone
And the warm pressure of his hand, awoke
Fond recollections, scenes of boyhood's bliss,
And the unwounded trust of guileless years,
Glassing themselves in each congenial breast.
—The men of skill, who cope with stern disease,
And wear Hygeia's mantle, offering still
Fresh incense at her shrine, with sighs deplore
A brother and a guide: while yon mute train,
Whose speech is in the eye,[1] pour forth their tears,
As o'er a father lost. Say,—can ye tell
How many now amid this gather'd throng
In tender meditations deeply muse,
Coupling his image with their gratitude?
He had stood with them at the gate of Death,
And pluck'd them from the Spoiler's threatening grasp,
Or when the roses from their pilgrimage
Were shorn, walk'd humbly with them 'neath the cloud
Of God's displeasure. Such remembrances
Rush o'er their spirits with a whelming tide,
Till in the heart's deep casket, tribute tears
Lie thick, like pearls. And doubt not there are those
'Mid this assembly, in the scanty robes
Of penury half wrapt, who well might tell
Of ministrations at their couch of woe,
Of toil-spent nights, and timely charities,
Uncounted, save in heaven.
'Tis well!—'Tis well!
The parted benefactor justly claims
Such obsequies. Yet let the Gospel breathe
Its strain sublime. A hallow'd hand hath cull'd
From the deep melodies of David's lyre,
And from the burning eloquence of Paul,
Balm for the mourner's wound. But there's a group
Within whose sacred home, yon lifeless form
Had been the centre of each tender hope,
The soul of every joy. Affections pure
And patriarchal hospitality,
Like household deities, presiding spread
Their wings around, making the favor'd cell
As bright a transcript of lost Eden's bliss,
As beams below. Now round that shaded hearth
The polish'd brow of radiant beauty droops,
Like the pale lilly-flower, by pitiless storms
Press'd and surcharg'd. There too are sadden'd eyes
More eloquent than words, and bursting hearts;
Earth may not weigh such grief. 'Tis heal'd in Heaven.
- ↑ The deaf and dumb,—of whose Asylum in Hartford, he was a founder and patron.