Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, ERIC'S FUNERAL, by MARGARET ELIZABETH MUNSON SANGSTER


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

ERIC'S FUNERAL, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: Tired? Yes, a little, I believe. I'm not so very / strong
Last Line: But are like unto the angels in god's house, which is heaven.
Alternate Author Name(s): Van Deth, Gerrit, Mrs.
Subject(s): Death; Friendship; Funerals; Dead, The; Burials


TIRED? Yes, a little, I believe. I'm not so very strong,
And older than I was, my dear: I'm sure it won't be long
Before my turn comes. Life is sweet, but surely sweeter far,
Where we shall find our faded youth, beyond the morning-star.

I've been to Eric's funeral—my old friend Eric Gray.
To think that he is gone! Ah, well! how peaceful-like to-day
He looked, as there he lay at rest in narrow coffined space,
The snow-white lilies on his breast, the death-white on his face!

I mind him years and years ago. A half-remembered dream,
A feather-flake of falling snow that melts upon a stream,
To me has yesterday become. My memory fails with age,
But all that filled my early home is like a pictured page.

I saw him first at father's house. They held the meeting there
On Wednesday evenings, and the church convened for praise and prayer;
The old and young together sat, and lifted up the psalm
In tones that seemed the phrase to fit, with blending cadence calm.

Not men of many words were they, grave-browed and stern and strong;
Yet on Predestination they would argue loud and long,—
With keenest blades of logic, and with hammer blows of will,
The while the women listened there in acquiescence still.

"Society" was what they called the Presbyterian band
Of earnest-hearted folk who tried to keep the Lord's command,—
Though hard as iron it might press, and blight their lives with pain,—
Who took earth's joy with thankfulness, and patient bore its bane.

Once more I see, through years of gloom, the candles burning bright,
The row of chairs around the room, the table covered white,
The Bible opened at "the place," and father waiting there,
A light upon his reverent face, and on his silver hair.

By ones and twos the people came, till all the chairs were filled;
Then one upon the Holy Name would call, and, as God willed,
Would bid Him deal with this His flock, yet haply in His love,
Would dare entreat Him smite the rock, and feed them from above.

"The Lord's my Shepherd, I'll not want; He makes me down to lie
In pastures green; He leadeth me the quiet waters by:"
The sweet old words, the sweet old tune, they bore our spirits higher
Than all the tortured music of the cultured modern choir.

It was the psalm their lips had learned beside the mother's knee,
Where Scotia's purple heather burned, or dashed the Northern Sea.
Oh, loud and clear the anthem rolled; I often hear it still,
As, rippling down from streets of gold, its echoes near me thrill.

Slow waned the sacred hour. At last the closing words were said;
Then swift the sparkling moments passed, slipped off a silver thread
Of laughter, innocent and low, while youths and maidens met,
And lingered, talking, loath to go, like youths and maidens yet.

You see yourself in yonder glass? Well, I was once like you,
As softly flushed, as dimple-sweet, when all my life was new.
My mother made me braid my hair and keep it smooth and plain;
She feared that curls would be a snare; she would not have me vain.

And often as my brothers told what this or that one said
Of compliment or courtesy, lest it should turn my head,
She gave a flavor of reproof—a dash of bitter-sweet—
To such light words; for beauty's bloom the immortal soul might cheat.

There was but one who never seemed to see that I was fair,
That in my eyes the sunlight dreamed, and danced upon my hair;
And that was Eric. So I set my heart on Eric Gray—
For ever what we may not have, that most we prize alway.

I showed it not by look or sign—that would have been a shame—
But in my heart I made his shrine, and softly named his name
In whispers only God could hear, where, kneeling by my bed
At night and morning, God was near, and heard the prayers I said.

"Let none despise thy youth," was bid to Timothy of old.
None could despise young Eric's truth, his bearing frank and bold.
Among his fellows there he stood, in stature lifted high,
Like some straight pine-tree of the wood that towers to the sky.

The elders listened when he spoke, the minister took heed
(And in those days the minister was some one grand indeed).
I thrilled with pride to hear his praise, and still perversely tried
To blame him for his rigid ways, and have my blame denied.

The sunlight wooes the forest leaf, the moonlight wooes the sea,
So by attraction's subtle grace was Eric drawn to me;
But all the more I loved him, I was iced in maiden pride,
And shy and cold and silent whene'er he sought my side,—

Till came at last my radiant hour of triumph and delight:
"He loved me." By that gracious dower the world for me grew bright;
My heart was like a cradled nest, where through enchanted days
There lived a sweet-voiced singing-guest that sang his love always.

"What parted us?" For Eric Gray had wife and children dear,
And I, in Scottish phrase, "have lived my lane" this many a year.
A widowed wife will wear for him the widow's shrouding veil,
Though she was never first whose robes in densest woe will trail.

"Who is that happy girl?" they said, who saw me at that time,
When common days went trippingly, like tuneful words that rhyme.
But Eric's mother did not smile. She thought that levity
Ill suited one whom he, "my son," had chosen his bride to be.

So when, for very rapture, in the glory of my life,—
The color and the perfume, of which its bloom was rife,—
I let my gladness overflow, and acted like the child
I was, she talked to Eric with warning accents mild,

And bade me read the Proverbs, where the prudent wife is praised.
I listened, little pleased; and more—I felt incensed, amazed.
My dear, if you would like to make a sinner of a saint,
Just take her to the Bible, with an air of vexed complaint.

I had not joined the church. I knew within me, sweet and clear,
A tenderness, as if that One Divinely Good were near;
I loved that Presence, but my heart accepted not the creed
That made me willing to be lost, if thus the Lord had need.

The gentle words that Jesus spoke were bread of life to me;
But, overlaid with doctrines fierce of duty and decree,
I could not say I took them all, as father thought I should,
And as at worship, night and morn, he often prayed I would.

Eric, he often talked to me, and urged me, still in vain,
To go before the elders and to let them make it plain;
And so our lovers' interviews grew into hot debate
Upon Electing Love, and Faith, and Mankind's Lost Estate.

At last one day, with mournful face, he said, "It is a sin
To marry, if not in the Lord. All glorious within
Should be the daughter of the King." I, smiling, set him free.
Heart's love, true love, is in the Lord; but that he did not see.

He married Jennie MacIntyre. She'd tried to win him long.
They say his life has not been quite as merry as a song.
He gathered wealth of lands and gold, his vessels crossed the sea,
But his stately home was grim and cold, as what else could it be

With her? "You're sorry for my life"? Nay, darling, all is best:
I'm surer of it as my sun leans down the golden west.
I was too quick and passionate, perhaps, for Eric Gray,
And I have lived in God's content, safe-folded, all my way.

But there at Eric's funeral, the lilies on his breast,
The lilies and the sheaf of wheat, and the aged face at rest,
With something of the look it wore, the young look back again—
It brought the old days here once more, the pleasure and the pain.

And all my heart went forward, past the shadow and the cross,
Even to that home where perfect love hath never thorn nor loss;
Where neither do they marry, nor in marriage are they given,
But are like unto the angels in God's house, which is Heaven.





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