“I left thee last, a child at heart, A woman scarce in years. I come to thee, a solemn corpse Which neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs; They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes To seal them safe from tears. “Look on me with thine own calm look:
I meet it calm as thou. No look of thine can change this smile, Or break thy sinful vow: I tell thee that my poor scorned heart
Is of thine earth — thine earth, a part: It cannot vex thee now. “But out, alas! these words are writ By a living, loving one,
Adown whose cheeks, the proofs of life The warm quick tears do run: Ah, let the unloving corpse control Thy scorn back from the loving soul
Whose place of rest is won. “I have prayed for thee with bursting sob When passion's course was free; I have prayed for thee with silent lips,
In the anguish none could see: They whispered oft,‘ She sleepeth soft’ — But I only prayed for thee. “Go to! I pray for thee no more:
The corpse's tongue is still, Its folded fingers point to heaven, But point there stiff and chill: No farther wrong, no farther woe
Hath license from the sin below Its tranquil heart to thrill. “I charge thee, by the living's prayer, And the dead's silentness,
To wring from out thy soul a cry Which God shall hear and bless! Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand, And pale among the saints I stand,
A saint companionless.” Bow lower down before the throne, Triumphant Rosalind! He boweth on thy corpse his face,
And weepeth as the blind: ‘ Twas a dread sight to see them so, For the senseless corpse rocked to and fro With the wail of his living mind.
But dreader sight, could such be seen, His inward mind did lie, Whose long-subjected humanness Gave out its lion-cry,
And fiercely rent its tenement In a mortal agony. I tell you, friends, had you heard his wail, ‘ Twould haunt you in court and mart,
And in merry feast until you set Your cup down to depart — That weeping wild of a reckless child From a proud man's broken heart.
O broken heart, O broken vow, That wore so proud a feature! God, grasping as a thunderbolt The man's rejected nature,
Smote him therewith i’ the presence high Of his so worshipped earth and sky That looked on all indifferently — A wailing human creature.
A human creature found too weak To bear his human pain — ( May Heaven's dear grace have spoken peace To his dying heart and brain! )
For when they came at dawn of day To lift the lady's corpse away, Her bier was holding twain. They dug beneath the kirkyard grass,
For born one dwelling deep; To which, when years had mossed the stone, Sir Roland brought his little son To watch the funeral heap:
And when the happy boy would rather Turn upward his blithe eyes to see The wood-doves nodding from the tree, “Nay, boy, look downward,” said his father,
“Upon this human dust asleep. And hold it in thy constant ken That God's own unity compresses ( One into one ) the human many,
And that his everlastingness is The bond which is not loosed by any: That thou and I this law must keep, If not in love, in sorrow then,—
Though smiling not like other men, Still, like them we must weep.”
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