"I shall arise." For centuries
Upon the grey old churchyard stone These words have stood; no more is said, The glorious promise stands alone, Untouched, while years and seasons roll Around it; March winds come and go, The summer twilights fall and fade, And autumn sunsets burn and glow.
"I shall arise"! O wavering heart,
From this take comfort and be strong!
"I shall arise"; nor always grope
In darkness, mingling right with wrong;
From tears and pain, from shades of doubt,
And wants within, that blindly call,
"I shall arise," in God's own light
Shall see the sum and truth of all.
Like children here we lisp and grope,
And, till the perfect manhood, wait
At home our time, and only dream
Of that which lies beyond the gate:
God's full free universe of life,
No shadowy paradise of bliss,
No realm of unsubstantial souls,
But life, more real life than this.
O soul! where'er your ward is kept,
In some still region calmly blest,
By quiet watch-fires till the dawn
And God's reveille break your rest,
O soul! that left this record here,
I read, but scarce can read for tears,
I bless you, reach and clasp your hand,
For all these long two hundred years.
"I shall arise"-O clarion call! Time rolling onward to the end Brings us to life that cannot die,
The life where faith and knowledge blend. Each after each, the cycles roll
In silence, and about us here
The shadow of the great White Throne
Falls broader, deeper, year by year.
Sweet Friends! What the women lave
For its last bed in the grave,
Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage, from which at last,
Like a hawk, my soul hath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room—
The wearer, not the garb;-the plume
Of the falcon, not the bars
That kept him from these splendid stars!
Loving friends! be wise, and dry
Straightway, every weeping eye.
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea shell,-one
Out of which the pearl is gone;
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the wall, the soul, is here.
'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie!
Let the shard be the earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!
Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now all thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends!
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,
Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in light you cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,-
In enlarging paradise,
Lives a life that never dies.
Farewell, friends, yet not farewell;-
Where I am ye too shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped,
Ye will wonder why ye wept;
Ye will know by wise love taught,
That here is all and there is naught.
Weep a while, if ye are fain,—
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death,-for death,
Now I know, is that first breath
Which our souls draw when we enter Life, which is of all life center.
Be ye certain all seems love,
Viewed from Allah's throne above;
Be ye stout of heart and come,
Bravely onward to your home!
La Allah il Allah! yea!
Thou love divine, thou love alway!
He who died at Azan gave
This to those who made his grave.
The autumn evening. The field
Strewn with its dank yellow drifts
Of withered leaves, and the elms,
Fade into dimness apace,
Silent; hardly a shout
From a few boys late at their play!
The lights come out in the street,
In the school-room windows;—but cold,
Solemn, unlighted, austere,
Through the gathering darkness, arise
The chapel walls, in whose bound
Thou, my father! art laid.
O strong soul, by what shore
Tarriest thou now? For that force,
Surely, has not been left in vain!
Somewhere, surely, afar,
In the sounding labor-house vast
Of being, is practised that strength,
Zealous, beneficent, firm!
Yes, in some far-shining sphere,
Conscious or not of the past,
Still thou performest the word
Of the spirit in whom thou dost live-
Prompt, unwearied, as here!
Still thou upraisest with zeal
The humble good from the ground,
Sternly repressest the bad!
Still, like a trumpet, dost rouse
Those who, with half-open eyes
Tread the border-land dim
'Twixt vice and virtue; revivest,
Succorest!-this was thy work,
This was thy life upon earth.
What is the course of the life
Of mortal men upon the earth?―
Most men eddy about
Here and there-eat and drink,
Chatter and love and hate,
Gather and squander, are raised
Aloft, are hurled in the dust,
Striving blindly, achieving
Nothing; and then they die-
Perish; and no one asks
Who or what they have been,
More than he asks what waves,
In the moonlit solitudes mild
Of the midmost ocean, have swelled,
Foam'd for a moment, and gone.
And there are some, whom a thirst
Ardent, unquenchable, fires,
Not with the crowd to be spent,
Not without aim to go round
In an eddy of purposeless dust,
Effort unmeaning and vain.
Ah, yes! some of us strive
Not without action to die
Fruitless, but with something to snatch
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