From heaven's blue walls the splendid light
Of signal-stars gleams far and bright
Down the abyssmal deeps of night.

Against the dim, dilating skies
Orion's radiant mysteries
Of belt, and plume, and helmet rise-

I see-with flashing sword in hand,
With eyes sublime, and forehead grand-
The conquering constellation stand!

And on one purple tower the moon
Hangs her white lamp-the night wind's rune
Floats faint o'er holt and black lagoon.

Far down the dimly shining bay
The drifting sea-fog, cold and gray,
Wraps all the golden ships away-

The fair-sailed ships, that in the glow
Of ghostly moon and vapor go,
Like wandering phantoms, to and fro!

With mournful thought I sit alone-
My heart is heavy as a stone,
And hath no utterance but a moan.

I think of him, who, being blest,
With pale hands crossed on silent breast,
Taketh his long unending rest;

While lone winds chant a funeral stave,
And pallid church-yard daisies wave
About his new unsodded grave.

The skies are solemn with their throng
Of choiring stars-and deep and strong
The river moans an undersong.

Oh mournful wind! Oh moaning river,
Oh golden planets, pausing never!
His lips have lost your song forever!

His lips, that done with pleadings vain-
And human sighing, born of pain-
Are hymning heav'ns triumphal strain.

The ages tragic Rhythm of change
Clashing on projects new and strange-
The tireless nations forward range-

Can ne'er disturb the perfect rest
Wherein he lieth-being blest,
With chill hands cross'd on silent breast.

Oh mourning heart! whose heavy plaint
Drifts down the deathly shadows faint,
Why weep ye for this risen saint?

His life's pale ashes, under foot
That cling about the daisies' root
Will bear at last most glorious fruit!

'Tis but the casket hid away
Neath roof of stone and burial clay;
The jewel shines in endless day!

And thus I gather for my tears
Sweet hope from faith in after years;
And far across the glimmering spheres

Height over height the heavens expand-
I see him in God's Eden land,
With palms of vict'ry in his hand;

O'er brows of solemn breadth profound,
With fadeless wreaths of glory wound,
He stands a seraph, robed and crowned.

Aye! in a vision, see I now;
Christ's symbol written on his brow-
Found worthy unto death art thou!

And ever in this heart of mine,
So won to glorious peace, divine
This vision of our lost shall shine;

Not with pale forehead in eclipse
With close-sealed lids and silent lips,
But grand in Life's Apocalypse!

For very truly hath been said-
For the pale living-not the dead-
Should mourning's bitterest tears be shed!