WE have watched him to the last We have seen the dreaded king Smile pacific, as he past By that couch of suffering: Wrinkles of aggressive years, Channels of recondite tears, Furrows on the anxious brow All are smooth as childhood's now. -- Death, as seen by men in dreams, Something stern and cruel seems, But his face is not the same, When he comes into the room, Takes the hand, and names the name, Seals the eyes with tender gloom, Saying, "Blessed are the laws To which all God's creatures bend: Mortal! fear me not, because Thine inevitable friend!" So when all the limbs were still, Moved no more by sense or will, Reve'rent hands the body laid In the Church's pitying shade, With the pious rites that fall, Like the rain-drops, upon all. What could man refuse or grant The spiritual inhabitant, Who so long had ruled within With power to sin or not to sin? Nothing. Hope, and hope alone, Mates with death. Upon a stone Let the simple name be writ, Traced upon the infant's front Years ago: and under it, As with Christian folk is wont, "@3Requiescat@1" or, may be, Symbol letters, R. I. P. Rest is happy -- rest is right, Rest is precious in God's sight. But if He, who lies below, Out of an abundant heart Drawing remedies for woe, Never wearied to impart Blessings to his fellow-men If he never rested then, But each harvest gathered seed For the future word and deed, -- And the darkness of his kind Filled him with such endless ruth, That the very light of truth Pained him walking 'mid the blind, -- How, when some transcendant change Gives his being boundless range, -- When he knows not time or space, In the nearness of God's face, -- In the world of spirits how Shall that soul be resting now? While one creature is unblest, How can such as he have rest? "Rest in Peace," the legend runs, Rest is sweet to Adam's sons. But can he whose busy brain Worked within this hollow skull, Now his zeal for truth restrain, Now his subtle fancy dull, When he wanders spirit-free In his young immortality! While on earth he only bore Life, as it was linked with lore, And the infinite increase Of, knowledge was his only peace; Till that knowledge be possest How can such a mind have rest? Rest is happy -- rest is meet For well-worn and weary feet, Surely not for him, on whom Ponderous stands the pompous tomb, Prompt to blind the Future's eyes With gilt deceit, and blazoned lies: Him, who never used his powers To speed for good the waiting hours, Made none wiser for his seeing, Made none better for his being; Closed his eyes, lest others' woes Should disturb his base repose; Catching at each selfish zest; How can he have right to rest? Rather we would deem him driven Anywhere in search of heaven, Failing ever in the quest, Till he learns it is not given That man should by himself be blest. Here we struggle with the light, And when comes the fated night, Into Nature's lap we fall, Like tired children, one and all. Day and Labour, Night and Rest, Come together in our mind, And we image forth the blest To eternal calm resigned: Yet it may be that the' abyss Of the lost is only this, That for them all things to come Are inanimate and dumb, And immortal life they steep In dishonourable sleep: While no power of pause is given To the inheritors of Heaven; And the holiest still are those Who are furthest from repose, And yet onward, onward, press To a loftier godliness; Still becoming, more than being, Apprehending, more than seeing, Feeling, as from orb to orb In their awful course they run, How their souls new light absorb From the self-existing One, -- @3Demiurgos,@1 throned above, Mind of Mind, and Love of Love. |