"Oh, Why Should the Spirit be Proud?" 3197

Bards, heroes, sages, side by side,

Who darkened nations when they died.

Earth has hosts, but thou canst show
Many a million for her one;
Through thy gates the mortal flow
Hath for countless years rolled on.

Back from the tomb

No step has come,

There fixed till the last thunder's sound

Shall bid thy prisoners be unbound.

George Croly [1780-1860]

"OH, WHY SHOULD THE SPIRIT OF MORTAL BE PROUD?"

Oн, why should the spirit of mortal be proud?
Like a swift-flitting meteor, a fast-flying cloud,
A flash of the lightning, a break of the wave,
He passeth from life to his rest in the grave.

The leaves of the oak and the willow shall fade,
Be scattered around, and together be laid;
As the young and the old, the low and the high,
Shall crumble to dust and together shall lie.

The child that a mother attended and loved,

The mother that infant's affection who proved,
The husband that mother and infant who blessed,-

Each, all, are away to their dwellings of rest.

The maid on whose brow, on whose cheek, in whose eye,
Shone beauty and pleasure, her triumphs are by;
And alike from the minds of the living erased
Are the memories of mortals who loved her and praised.

The hand of the king, that the scepter hath borne;
The brow of the priest, that the mitre hath worn;
The
eyes of the sage, and the heart of the brave,—
Are hidden and lost in the depths of the grave.

The peasant, whose lot was to sow and to reap;

The herdsman, who climbed with his goats up the steep; The beggar, who wandered in search of his bread,Have faded away like the grass that we tread.

The saint who enjoyed the communion of heaven,
The sinner who dared to remain unforgiven,
The wise and the foolish, the guilty and just,
Have quietly mingled their bones in the dust.

So the multitude goes, like the flower or weed,
That withers away to let others succeed;
So the multitude comes, even those we behold,
To repeat every tale that has often been told.

For we are the same things our fathers have been;
We see the same sights our fathers have seen;
We drink the same stream, we feel the same sun,
And run the same course our fathers have run.

The thoughts we are thinking our fathers did think;
From the death we are shrinking our fathers did shrink;
To the life we are clinging our fathers did cling,
But it speeds from us all like the bird on the wing.

They loved, but the story we cannot unfold;
They scorned, but the heart of the haughty is cold;
They grieved, but no wail from their slumbers will come;
They joyed, but the tongue of their gladness is dumb.

They died, ah! they died; we, things that are now,
That walk on the turf that lies over their brow,
And make in their dwellings a transient abode,
Meet the changes they met on their pilgrimage road.

Yea, hope and despondency, pleasure and pain,

Are mingled together in sunshine and rain:
And the smile and the tear, the song and the dirge,
Still follow each other like surge upon surge.

'Tis the wink of an eye; 'tis the draught of a breath From the blossom of health to the paleness of death, From the gilded saloon to the bier and the shroud; Oh, why should the spirit of mortal be proud? William Knox [1789-1825]

THE HOUR OF DEATH

LEAVES have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set,—but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Day is for mortal care:

Eve for glad meetings round the joyous hearth; Night, for the dreams of sleep, the voice of prayer, But all for thee, thou Mightiest of the earth.

The banquet hath its hour

Its feverish hour-of mirth and song and wine; There comes a day for grief's o'erwhelming power, A time for softer tears, but all are thine.

Youth and the opening rose

May look like things too glorious for decay,

And smile at thee, but thou art not of those That wait the ripened bloom to seize their prey.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set, but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

We know when moons shall wane,

When summer birds from far shall cross the sea, When autumn's hue shall tinge the golden grain,But who shall teach us when to look for thee?

Is it when Spring's first gale

Comes forth to whisper where the violets lie?
Is it when roses in our paths grow pale?
They have one season-all are ours to die!

602251 A

Thou art where billows foam;

Thou art where music melts upon the air;

Thou art around us in our peaceful home; And the world calls us forth-and thou art there.

Thou art where friend meets friend,

Beneath the shadow of the elm to rest;

Thou art where foe meets foe, and trumpets rend The skies, and swords beat down the princely crest.

Leaves have their time to fall,

And flowers to wither at the north-wind's breath, And stars to set,-but all,

Thou hast all seasons for thine own, O Death!

Felicia Dorothea Hemans [1793-1835]

THE SLEEP

"He giveth his beloved sleep."-Psalm cxxvii. 2

Of all the thoughts of God that are
Borne inward into souls afar,
Along the Psalmist's music deep,
Now tell me if that any is,
For gift or grace, surpassing this:
"He giveth his beloved-sleep"?

What would we give to our beloved?
The hero's heart to be unmoved,
The poet's star-tuned harp to sweep,
The patriot's voice to teach and rouse,
The monarch's crown, to light the brows?
He giveth his beloved-sleep.

What do we give to our beloved?

A little faith all undisproved,

A little dust to overweep,

And bitter memories to make

The whole earth blasted for our sake:

He giveth his beloved--sleep.

"Sleep soft," beloved! we sometimes say,
Who have no tune to charm away

Sad dreams that through the eyelids creep:
But never doleful dream again

Shall break the happy slumber when
He giveth his beloved-sleep.

O earth, so full of dreary noises!
O men, with wailing in your voices!
O delved gold, the wailers heap!
O strife, O curse, that o'er it fall!
God strikes a silence through you all,
And giveth his beloved-sleep.

His dews drop mutely on the hill,
His cloud above it saileth still,

Though on its slope men sow and reap:
More softly than the dew is shed,
Or cloud is floated overhead,
He giveth his beloved-sleep.

Ay, men may wonder while they scan
A living, thinking, feeling man
Confirmed in such a rest to keep;

But Angels say, and through the word
I think their happy smile is heard-—
"He giveth his beloved-sleep."

For me, my heart, that erst did go
Most like a tired child at a show,

That sees through tears the mummers leap,

Would now its wearied vision close,

Would childlike on his love repose

Who giveth his beloved-sleep.

And friends, dear friends, when it shall be

That this low breath is gone from me,
And round my bier ye come to weep,
Let One, most loving of you all,
Say "Not a tear must o'er her fall!

He giveth his beloved sleep."

Elizabeth Barrett Browning [1806-1861]