The secret things of the grave are there, Who telleth a tale of unspeaking death? Who lifteth the veil of what is to come? Who painteth the shadows that are beneath The wide-winding caves of the peopled tomb? Or uniteth the hopes of what shall be With the fears and the love for that which we see? A SUMMER-EVENING CHURCH-YARD. LECHLADE, GLOUCESTERSHIRE. THE wind has swept from the wide atmosphere Creep hand in hand from yon obscurest glen. They breathe their spells towards the departing day, Thou too, aerial Pile! whose pinnacles Obeyest in silence their sweet solemn spells, Clothing in hues of heaven thy dim and distant spire, Around whose lessening and invisible height Gather among the stars the clouds of night. The dead are sleeping in their sepulchres : And, mouldering as they sleep, a thrilling sound And mingling with the still night and mute sky Its awful hush is felt inaudibly. Thus solemnized and softened, death is mild And terrorless as this serenest night: Here could I hope, like some enquiring child Sporting on graves, that death did hide from human sight Sweet secrets, or beside its breathless sleep That loveliest dreams perpetual watch did keep. TO WORDSWORTH. POET of Nature, thou hast wept to know Deserting these, thou leavest me to grieve, THE DÆMON OF THE WORLD. How wonderful is Death, Death and his brother Sleep! One pale as yonder wan and hornèd moon, The other glowing like the vital morn, It breathes over the world: Yet both so passing strange and wonderful! Hath then the iron-sceptred Skeleton, Nor putrefaction's breath Leave aught of this pure spectacle But loathsomeness and ruin? — Spare aught but a dark theme, Will they, when morning's beam Flows through those wells of light, Seek far from noise and day some western cave, Ianthe doth not sleep The dreamless sleep of death: With interchange of hues mock the broad moon, Without assured reward. Her dewy eyes are closed; On their translucent lids, whose texture fine With unapparent fire, |