Part 20 (1/2)
LINES
SACRED TO THE MEMORY OF THE REV. JAMES GRAHAME, AUTHOR OF ”THE SABBATH,” &C.
_Two Editions of this little Poem have been already published; and its reception among those whom the author most wished to please, has induced him to include it in this volume._
With tearless eyes and undisturbed heart, O Bard! of sinless life and holiest song, I muse upon thy death-bed and thy grave; Though round that grave the trodden gra.s.s still lies Besmeared with clay; for many feet were there, Fast-rooted to the spot, when slowly sank Thy coffin, GRAHAME! into the quiet cell.
Yet, well I loved thee, even as one might love An elder brother, imaged in the soul With solemn features, half-creating awe, But smiling still with gentleness and peace.
Tears have I shed when thy most mournful voice Did tremblingly breathe forth that touching air, By Scottish shepherd haply framed of old, Amid the silence of his pastoral hills, Weeping the flowers on Flodden-field that died.
Wept, too, have I, when thou didst simply read From thine own lays so simply beautiful Some short pathetic tale of human grief, Or orison or hymn of deeper love, That might have won the sceptic's sullen heart To gradual adoration, and belief Of Him who died for us upon the cross.
Yea! oft when thou wert well, and in the calm Of thy most Christian spirit blessing all Who look'd upon thee, with those gentlest smiles That never lay on human face but thine; Even when thy serious eyes were lighted up With kindling mirth, and from thy lips distill'd Words soft as dew, and cheerful as the dawn, Then, too, I could have wept, for on thy face, Eye, voice, and smile, nor less thy bending frame, By other cause impair'd than length of years, Lay something that still turn'd the thoughtful heart To melancholy dreams, dreams of decay, Of death and burial, and the silent tomb.
And of the tomb thou art an inmate now!
Methinks I see thy name upon the stone Placed at thy head, and yet my cheeks are dry.
Tears could I give thee, when thou wert alive, The mournful tears of deep foreboding love That might not be restrain'd; but now they seem Most idle all! thy worldly course is o'er, And leaves such sweet remembrance in my soul As some delightful music heard in youth, Sad, but not painful, even more spirit-like Than when it murmur'd through the shades of earth.
Short time wert thou allow'd to guide thy flock Through the green pastures, where in quiet glides The Siloah of the soul! Scarce was thy voice Familiar to their hearts, who felt that heaven Did therein speak, when suddenly it fell Mute, and for ever! Empty now and still The holy house which thou didst meekly grace, When with uplifted hand, and eye devout, Thy soul was breathed to Jesus, or explained The words that lead unto eternal life.
From infancy thy heart was vow'd to G.o.d: And aye the hope that one day thou might'st keep A little fold, from all the storms of sin Safe-shelter'd, and by reason of thy prayers Warm'd by the suns.h.i.+ne of approving Heaven, Upheld thy spirit, destined for a while To walk far other paths, and with the crowd Of worldly men to mingle. Yet even then, Thy life was ever such as well became One whose pure soul was fixed upon the cross!
And when with simple fervent eloquence, GRAHAME pled the poor man's cause, the listner oft Thought how becoming would his visage smile Across the house of G.o.d, how beauteously That man would teach the saving words of Heaven!
How well he taught them, many a one will feel Unto their dying day; and when they lie On the grave's brink, unfearing and composed, Their speechless souls will bless the holy man Whose voice exhorted, and whose footsteps led Unto the paths of life; nor sweeter hope, Next to the gracious look of Christ, have they Than to behold his face who saved their souls.
But closed on earth thy blessed ministry!
And while thy native Scotland mourns her son Untimely reft from her maternal breast, Weeps the fair sister-land, with whom ere while The stranger sojourn'd, stranger but in birth, For well she loved thee, as thou wert her own.
On a most clear and noiseless Sabbath-night I heard that thou wert gone, from the soft voice Of one who knew thee not, but deeply loved Thy spirit meekly s.h.i.+ning in thy song.
At such an hour the death of one like thee Gave no rude shock, nor by a sudden grief Destroy'd the visions from the starry sky Then settling in my soul. The moonlight slept With a diviner sadness on the air; The tender dimness of the night appeared Darkening to deeper sorrow, and the voice Of the far torrent from the silent hills Flow'd, as I listen'd, like a funeral strain Breath'd by some mourning solitary thing.
Yet Nature in her pensiveness still wore A blissful smile, as if she sympathized With those who grieved that her own Bard was dead, And yet was happy that his spirit dwelt At last within her holiest sanctuary, 'Mid long expecting angels.
And if e'er Faith, fearless faith, in the eternal bliss Of a departed brother, may be held By beings blind as we, that faith should dry All eyes that weep for GRAHAME; or through their tears Shew where he sits august and beautiful On the right hand of Jesus, 'mid the saints Whose glory he on earth so sweetly sang.
No fears have we when some delightful child Falls from its innocence into the grave!
Soon as we know its little breath is gone, We see it lying in its Saviour's breast, A heavenly flower there fed with heavenly dew.
Childlike in all that makes a child so dear To G.o.d and man, and ever consecrates Its cradle and its grave, my GRAHAME, wert thou!
And had'st thou died upon thy mother's breast Ere thou could'st lisp her name, more fit for heaven Thou scarce had'st been, than when thy honour'd head Was laid into the dust, and Scotland wept O'er hill and valley for her darling Bard.
How beautiful is genius when combined With holiness! Oh, how divinely sweet The tones of earthly harp, whose chords are touch'd By the soft hand of Piety, and hung Upon Religion's shrine, there vibrating With solemn music in the ear of G.o.d.
And must the Bard from sacred themes refrain?
Sweet were the hymns in patriarchal days, That, kneeling in the silence of his tent, Or on some moonlight hill, the shepherd pour'd Unto his heavenly Father. Strains survive Erst chaunted to the lyre of Israel, More touching far than ever poet breathed Amid the Grecian isles, or later times Have heard in Albion, land of every lay.
Why therefore are ye silent, ye who know The trance of adoration, and behold Upon your bended knees the throne of Heaven, And him who sits thereon? Believe it not, That Poetry, in purer days the nurse, Yea! parent oft of blissful piety, Should silent keep from service of her G.o.d, Nor with her summons, loud but silver-toned, Startle the guilty dreamer from his sleep, Bidding him gaze with rapture or with dread On regions where the sky for ever lies Bright as the sun himself, and trembling all With ravis.h.i.+ng music, or where darkness broods O'er ghastly shapes, and sounds not to be borne.
Such glory, GRAHAME! is thine: Thou didst despise To win the ear of this degenerate age By gorgeous epithets, all idly heap'd On theme of earthly state, or, idler still, By tinkling measures and unchasten'd lays, Warbled to pleasure and her syren-train, Profaning the best name of poesy.
With loftier aspirations, and an aim More worthy man's immortal nature, Thou That holiest spirit that still loves to dwell In the upright heart and pure, at noon of night Didst fervently invoke, and, led by her Above the Aonian mount, send from the stars Of heaven such soul-subduing melody As Bethlehem-shepherds heard when Christ was born.
It is the Sabbath-day: Creation sleeps Cradled within the arms of heavenly love!
The mystic day, when from the vanquish'd grave The world's Redeemer rose, and hail'd the light Of G.o.d's forgiving smile. Obscured and pale Were then the plumes of prostrate seraphim, Then hush'd the universe her sphere-born strain, When from his throne, Paternal Deity Declared the Saviour not in vain had shed His martyr'd glory round the accursed cross, That fallen man might sit in Paradise, And earth to heaven ascend in jubilee.
O blessed day, by G.o.d and man beloved!