Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, BERKLEY CHURCHYARD, by FREDERIC ROWLAND MARVIN


Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

BERKLEY CHURCHYARD, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: How still are all the dead
Last Line: Our gift of love for men.
Subject(s): Churchyards; Death; Graves; Marble; Soldiers; Dead, The; Tombs; Tombstones


HOW still are all the dead,
Each in his narrow bed;
None anxious vigil keep,
But all are fast asleep;
On every brow is rest,
Peace dwells in every breast.
It is a great relief
To know that neither grief,
Nor any sad distress,
Nor doubt, nor weariness,
Their slumber shall disturb.

Yonder the gray church-tower
The spreading elms embower;
Its storied window looks
Through ivy-mantled nooks,
To where the roses bloom
O'er ruined wall and tomb.
No more the walks are trod,
Where clover-blossoms nod;
The yellow daisies bright,
All rimmed with spotless white,
In matchless beauty wave

O'er crumbling stone and grave.
The heavy velvet moss
Obscures a marble cross,
A funeral urn, and half
The quaint old epitaph,
Where years and years ago,
When earth was white with snow,
And winter winds were rife,
They brought the gentle wife,
And laid her down to rest;
Hands folded on her breast,
And on her sad, sweet face
Such meek and holy grace,
The preacher scarce could say
The prayer, but turned away
And wept. The story yet
We cannot quite forget,
Though fifty years are flown
Since on the sculptured stone
The scripture verse they placed,
And her sweet name they traced.

Yonder an old woodbine,
Fast to a lifeless pine,
Clings trembling in the wind.
Whose bones are here enshrined,
Beneath its wealth of green?
The flowers that bloom between
The loosening joints of stone,
Have wholly overgrown
The once familiar name,
Long known to village fame.
Here rests a rural bard;
His lowly lot was hard,
His vision drear and dun.
Some poor applause he won
In humble hearts and homes;
No tooled and gilded tomes
Contain his simple rhymes,
Nor in far distant climes
His rustic songs are sung,
But here when he was young
He wrote, and early died.
The simple folk some pride
In his rude work displayed,
And o'er his grave they made
This record carved in stone.
A little volume bound
In paper, once I found—
'Twas all he left the world.

Beneath a chestnut tree
Yonder a tomb I see,
Of costly marble wrought,
From distant quarry brought,
And reared with vulgar pride,
So strong it must abide
When many years have flown.
Well is the story known,
Recorded not in stone,
But all remembered still.
His was the ruined mill,
Whose bones lie here at rest;
And in that mill a chest
Contained his hard-earned gold;
Who 't was the secret told,
Was never known. One night,
By some strange oversight,
Unlocked was left the door;
We never knew much more,
Only when morning broke,
Dead upon his floor of oak
The wealthy miller lay.
Who took the gold away,
A secret to this day
Remains. Yet one dark night,
Some hand did boldly write
Upon the snow-white shaft,
A rude remorseful draft
Of a confession, made
With purpose to evade
Disclosure, yet express
Contrition and distress.
The cleansing snow and rain
Have washed that mark of Cain
From the fair stone away;
Remains not to betray
The writer, one sad line.

What mem'ries cluster here!—
The smile of hope, the tear
Of sorrow and regret,
And anxious thoughts that fret
The inward soul of man.
How brief life's little span!
How sweet life's golden day,
That will not with us stay!
And yet is death not sweet,
A calm and cool retreat
After the toil and heat,
The weakness and defeat,
Of our frail human lot?
Once to the village came
Whom many years of shame
Had left rare beauty still;
It was her last sad will,
That here her dust might lie
Beneath her native sky;
She would nor praise nor blame
Should e'er engrave her name,
Nor any mound be made,
To tell where they had laid,
Beneath the quiet shade,
Of an o'erhanging bough,
The fair dishonored brow
That only longed for rest.

How strange a thing is life—
The wild incessant strife
Of passion and despair!
Before we are aware,
The day is flown for aye—
So soon 't is time to die.
Death never yet forgot,
In palace or in cot,
In any time or place,
One of our passing race.
Before me stands the shaft
Of one whose gentle craft
It was to carve in wood;
In all the neighborhood
Was known his wondrous skill.
Now yonder daffodil
Grows from the dust that wrought,
The cunning brain that thought.
Why was his life so brief?
Ask thou the fallen leaf
That lies before thee now,
Why from its parent bough,
Ere came the winter-day,

So soon it fell away.
Ask thou the withered flower,
That bloomed its little hour,
And at thy feet lies dead.
No more its fragrance shed
Upon the evening air,
Breathes softly everywhere
The thought of summer fair.
Death reigns forevermore;
And yet we need not pore,
In lonely doubt and grief,
O'er fallen flower and leaf.
Life hath its joy for all:
The vine on yonder wall,
Where spotted lizards crawl,
And the glad robins call
Gaily their feathered young.
Has, all unnoticed, sprung
From the dark earth below.
The winter's frost and snow,
Gave it new strength to grow.
Out of our griefs arise
The things that most we prize.
Life is too brief for tears,
Too soon it disappears;
Nor should our foolish fears
Make sad the flying years.
From these let us arise

To greet the morning skies,
To welcome the bright noon,
Or watch the silver moon
Flood with its mellow light
The erstwhile lonely night,—
Lonely no more since we,
In earth and air and sea
May use and beauty find.
We may not leave behind
Our grief, and yet behold!
From it there may unfold,
As from the bud a flower,
Some rich and golden hour.

Back from the wars there came
A soldier—read his name
Unknown to larger fame,
On these rude broken stones,
That like his crumbling bones,
Themselves are crumbling now.
The heavy lilacs bow,
Until they touch the ground
In the low sunken mound
Where the gray squirrels hide.
'T is said he was a scout;
From battle oft without
A single wound he came;
Yet, such is human fame!

His grave is left alone,
With weed and vine o'ergrown.
And here I muse a while,
Beside this ruined pile,
And dream of that bright day
When war shall pass away,
The crime of battle cease,
And universal peace
Shall greater conquest know,
Than sword and gun can show.

With bowed and reverent head,
Above his dust I tread,
Who though men call him dead
Speaks to the list'ning ear,
To counsel and to cheer.
Beside the soldier brave,
In even humbler grave,
The village pastor lies.
Himself he put aside,
To be the friend and guide
Of lowly ones and meek;
'Twas his their good to seek.
Unlettered rustics heard
From his pure lips the word
Of warning or of praise;
And all his useful days
To quiet toil he gave,

The erring soul to save.
His holy life was bright
With a diviner light
Than earthly science knows.
I pluck the clamb'ring rose
Where he lies now at rest;
Of all, his life was best.
On this wild fragrant flower,
The child of sun and shower,
Pressed in some cherished book,
Oft will I musing look.
The leaves though faded, still
Shall from themselves distil
An odor rich and rare,
Not for our earthly air,
But for the inward sense.
God grant when we go hence,
Some kindly word or deed,
Far more than rite or creed,
And more than worldly gain,
To all may still remain—
Our gift of love for men.





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