Our shadowy congregation rested still, As musing on that message we had heard And brooding on that “End it when you will;” Perchance awaiting yet some other word;
When keen as lightning through a muffled sky Sprang forth a shrill and lamentable cry:— The man speaks sooth, alas! the man speaks sooth: We have no personal life beyond the grave;
There is no God; Fate knows nor wrath nor ruth: Can I find here the comfort which I crave? In all eternity I had one chance, One few years’ term of gracious human life:
The splendours of the intellect's advance, The sweetness of the home with babes and wife; The social pleasures with their genial wit: The fascination of the worlds of art,
The glories of the worlds of nature, lit By large imagination's glowing heart; The rapture of mere being, full of health; The careless childhood and the ardent youth,
The strenuous manhood winning various wealth, The reverend age serene with life's long truth: All the sublime prerogatives of Man; The storied memories of the times of old,
The patient tracking of the world's great plan Through sequences and changes myriadfold. This chance was never offered me before; For me this infinite Past is blank and dumb:
This chance recurreth never, nevermore; Blank, blank for me the infinite To-come. And this sole chance was frustrate from my birth, A mockery, a delusion; and my breath
Of noble human life upon this earth So racks me that I sigh for senseless death. My wine of life is poison mixed with gall, My noonday passes in a nightmare dream,
I worse than lose the years which are my all: What can console me for the loss supreme? Speak not of comfort where no comfort is, Speak not at all: can words make foul things fair?
Our life's a cheat, our death a black abyss: Hush and be mute envisaging despair.— This vehement voice came from the northern aisle Rapid and shrill to its abrupt harsh close;
And none gave answer for a certain while, For words must shrink from these most wordless woes; At last the pulpit speaker simply said, With humid eyes and thoughtful drooping head:—
My Brother, my poor Brothers, it is thus; This life itself holds nothing good for us, But ends soon and nevermore can be; And we knew nothing of it ere our birth,
And shall know nothing when consigned to earth: I ponder these thoughts and they comfort me.
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