Selected Poems of Bernard Barton, the 'Quaker Poet'. Christopher Stokes W.

because His word has told us so,

      That Christ, our Captain, triumph’d over Death, 30

      And is the first fruits of the dead below;—

      That he has trod for man this path of woe,

      Dying—to rise again!—we would not grace

      Death’s transitory spell with trophied show;

      As if that “shadowy vale,” supplied no trace 35

      To prove the grave is not our final dwelling-place.

      The poet’s page, indeed, would fain supply

      A specious reason for the sculptor’s art;

      Telling of “holy texts that teach to die:”

      But much I doubt they seldom reach the heart 40

      Of church-yard rovers. How should truths impart

      Instruction, when engraven upon stone,

      If unconfess’d before? The Christian’s chart

      Records the answer unto Di-ves known,

      Who, for his brethren’s sake, pleaded in suppliant tone. 45

      “If Moses and the Prophets speak unheard,

      Neither would they believe if spoke the dead.”

      Then how should those, by whom unmov’d the word

      Of greater far than such, has oft’ been read,

      By random texts, thus “strewn around,” be led 50

      Aright to live, or die? And how much less

      Can false and foolish tributes, idly spread,

      In mockery of truth and tenderness,

      Awaken solemn thoughts, or holy themes impress?

      And, therefore, would I never wish to see 55

      Tombstone, or epitaph obtruded here.

      All has been done, requir’d by decency,

      When the unprison’d spirit sought its sphere:

      The lifeless body, stretch’d upon the bier

      With due solemnity, was laid in earth; 60

      And Friendship’s parting sigh, Affection’s tear,

      Claim’d by pure love, and deeply cherish’d worth,

      Might rise or fall uncheck’d, as sorrow gave them birth.

      There wanted not the pall, or nodding plume,

      The white-rob’d priest, the stated form of prayer; 65

      There needed not the livery’d garb of gloom,

      That grief, or carelessness alike might wear;

      ’Twas felt that such things “had no business there.”

      Instead of these, a silent pause, to tell

      What language could not; or, unconn’d by care 70

      Of rhetoric’s rules, from faltering lips there fell

      Some truths to mourners dear, in memory long to dwell.

      Then came the painful close—delay’d as long

      As well might be for silent sorrow’s sake;

      Hallow’d by love, which never seems so strong, 75

      As when its dearest ties are doom’d to break.

      One farewell glance there yet remain’d to take:

      Scarce could the tearful eye fulfil its trust,

      When, leaning o’er the grave, with thoughts awake

      To joys departed, the heart felt it must 80

      Assent unto the truth which tells us—we are dust!

      The scene is past!—and what of added good

      The dead to honour, or to soothe the living,

      Could then have mingled with the spirit’s mood,

      From all the empty show of man’s contriving? 85

      What worthier of memory’s cherish’d hiving

      With miser care? In hours of such distress

      Deep, deep into itself the heart is diving;

      Aye! into depths, which reason must confess,

      At least mine owns them so, awful and fathomless! 90

      Oh! ’tis not in the bitterness of grief

      Bereavement brings with it, the anguish’d mind

      Can find in funeral mummeries relief.

      What matters, to the mourner left behind,

      The outward “pomp of circumstance,” assign’d 95

      To such a sacrifice? What monument

      Is wanted, where affection has enshrin’d

      The memory of the dead? Grief must have spent

      Itself, before one thought to such poor themes is lent.

      And, when it hath so spent itself, does it 100

      Need other pile than what itself can build?

      O no!—it has an epitaph unwrit,

       Yet graven deeper far than the most skill’d

      Of artists’ tool can reach:—the full heart thrill’d,

      While that inscription was recording there; 105

      And, till his earthly course shall be fulfill’d,

      That tablet, indestructible, must bear

      The mourner’s woe, in lines Death can alone outwear.

      Then, be our burial-grounds, as should become

      A simple, but a not unfeeling race: 110

      Let them appear, to outward semblance, dumb,

      As best befits the quiet dwelling-place

      Appointed for the prisoners of Grace,

      Who wait the promise by the Gospel given,—

      When the last trump shall sound,—the trembling base 115

      Of tombs, of temples, pyramids be riven,

      And all the dead arise before the hosts of Heaven!

      Oh! in that awful hour, of what avail

      Unto the “spiritual body,” will be found

      The costliest canopy, or proudest tale 120

      Recorded on it?—what avail the bound

      Of holy, or unconsecrated ground?

      As freely will the unencumber’d sod

      Be cleft asunder at that trumpet’s sound,

      As Royalty’s magnificent abode: 125

      As pure its inmate rise, and stand before his God.

      Then Thou, lamented and beloved Friend!

      Not friend alone, but more than such to me;

      Whose blameless life, and peaceful, hopeful end,

      Endear, alike, thy cherish’d memory; 130

      Thine will a joyful resurrection be!

      Thy works, before-hand, unto judgment gone,

      The second death shall have no power o’er thee:

      On thee, redeem’d by