Alfred H. Miles, ed. The Sacred Poets of the Nineteenth Century. 1907.
By Poems Old and New. III. AfterCharles Dent Bell (18191898)
I
I fell upon the bed and wept;
And there, while nothing moved or stirred,
Shaken by grief I slept.
With throbbing heart and aching head;
For even slumber’s self did keep
Some memories of the dead.
I wept no more, no longer sighed,
Though in the chamber where she lay,
And where that morn she died.
And knowing well that she was dead;
And yet no terror choked my breath,
Or bowed my wondering head.
Freed from the weak and mortal frame,
And clad in raiment all of light,
Which flashed like lambent flame.
That bent before his cruel power,
Was but the fair and outward sheath
That held the fragrant flower.
That to my very soul did thrill;
And all my quivering pulses shook
And all my heart stood still.
I felt that she was leaving me;
I cried, “Oh, let me also die,
That I may go with thee!”
Come ringing down the heavens afar;
And sweeter sounded every word,
Than song of Morning Star.
And glowing rapture filled her eye;
And as upon her ear it broke,
Her glance was raised on high.
That leads through depths of dazzling light,
To worlds where everlasting day,
Place never gives to night.
Where burning suns in glory move;
I saw her mounting thro’ the sky
Drawn by the force of love.
By argent moon, keen, bright, and clear;
Orb after orb flashed on her eyes,
Globed each in silver sphere.
Where gleam the golden gates afar;
At length beneath her feet there lay,
Both sun, and moon, and star.
Until she reached the happy place,
Where God dwells in the perfect light,
And shows His awful face.
Of melody and thrilling song;
And, bathed in glory, there she stood,
Close to the shining throng.
A crown upon His kingly brow,
With dazzling eyes and radiant hair,
And face with love aglow.
Whence flow the living rills of light;
And, stooping down, I saw her drink
The waters pure and bright.
As they beheld her forward come,
Pause in their loud adoring hymn,
To bid her welcome home.
Of the green mystic Tree of Life,
Whose fragrant leaves fall not, nor fade,
Whose boughs with fruit are rife.
That grew in happy gardens there,
And never wither as do ours,
But bloom for ever fair.
And sea of glass that burned with fire,
And starry gates their doors unrolled,
As He led her ever higher.
One to another, as they sang,
In strange delicious melody,
That thro’ the heavens rang.
And knew it well from all the rest;
And as she struck her golden lyre,
Methought it sounded best.
Along the crystal floor of heav’n,
Full in the Day of Paradise,
Which never wanes to ev’n.
Thro’ bending ranks of angels bright,
Until she stood before the throne,
There lost within God’s light.
And then I woke with sudden start,
Full of a sweet, tho’ sad surprise,
And throbbings of the heart.
To see her lying on the bed,
Where white, and calm, and still she lay,
One of the blessed dead.
The bitter anguish and the pain;
I said, “O God, Thy will be done,
I ask her not again.
Recall her to this world of woe;
Nor might I, could I speak the word,
Draw her from Thee below.
And follow Thee thro’ pastures fair;
Patient I’ll tarry here a space,
Then seek her with Thee there.”