The night is calm, and sweet, and still—
Such nights should ever be—
When the young and good of this earth of ours
Droop in our hands like wither'd flow'rs,
To bloom in eternity.
It is thus I think, as I wander out
From the dim, drear bed of death,
With longings within me of better mould,
And hopes and wishes that make me bold,
And brace the shaken faith.
I look on the sky, the hill, and the stream;
But the only calm I see
Is the calm on the shrunken face of him
Asleep in the chamber wierd and dim,
From the toil and the battle free.
Then I think if a vacant space be left
By the dead in this heart of mine,
Let me fill it this hour with the light and love,
Coming down like a balm from the stars above—
From a throne and a presence divine.
Alas, alas! for the vain resolve
That must bow before the force
Of this human grief, and the tears must rise
In a bitter flood to the weary eyes
From my bosom's inmost source.
The stars look down from their high abodes,
And their light is on my brow,
As they whisper—'A spirit had cross'd their way
To a brighter light than their own display,
And was singing with angels now.'
It must be so—O, this miser heart
That will not let away
The beings we love from this worthless earth
To rise in the blush of a better birth,
In the light of a better day.
I will weep no more, but will sit myself
Again in the silent room,
And watch the features, childlike fair,
With their long sweet shadows gathering there,
And bless an early tomb.