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"she is dead!" they said to him.

"Come away; Kiss her! and leave her! — thy love

is clay!"

They smoothed her tresses of dark

brown hair; On her forehead of marble they laid

it fair:

Over her eyes, which gazed too much,

They drew the lids with a gentle touch;

With a tender touch they closed up well

The sweet thin lips that had secrets to tell;

About her brows, and her dear, pale face

They tied her veil and her marriagelace;

And drew on her white feet her

white silk shoes; — Which were the whiter no eye could


And over her bosom they crossed

her hands; "Come away," they said, — "God


And then there was silence; — and

nothing there But the Silence — and scents of


And jasmine, and roses, and rosemary;

For they said, "As a lady should lie, lies she!"

And they held their breath as they left the room,

With a shudder to glance at its stillness and gloom.


But he — who loved her too well to dread

The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,—

He lit his lamp, and took the key, And turn'd it! — Alone again — he and she!

He and she; but she would not speak, Though he kiss'd, in the old place, the quiet cheek;

He and she; yet she would not smile, Though he call'd her the name that was fondest erewhile.

He and she; and she did not move To any one passionate whisperof love!

Then he said, "Cold lips! and breast

without breath! Is there no voice? — no language of


"Dumb to the ear and still to the


But to heart and to soul distinct,— intense?

"See, now,— I listen with soul, not ear —

What was the secret of dying, Dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all, That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greatest to find

how deep. Beyond all dreams, sank downward

that sleep?

"Did life roll backward its record, Dear,

And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss

To find out so what a wisdom love is?

"Oh, perfect Dead! oh, Dead most dear.

I hold the breath of my soul to hear;

"I listen — as deep as to horrible hell,

As high as to heaven! — and you do not tell!

"There must be pleasures in dying, Sweet,

To make you so placid from head to feet!

"I would tell you, Darling, if I were dead,

And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed.

"I would say, though the angel of

death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

"You should not ask, vainly, with

streaming eyes, Which in Death's touch was the

chief est surprise;

"The very strangest and suddenest thing

Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah! foolish world! Oh! most kind Dead!

Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,

With the soft rich voice, in the dear old way: —

"The utmost wonder is this,—I hear, And see you. and love you, and kiss you. Dear;

"I can speak, now you listen with

soul alone: If your soul could see, it would all

be shown.

"What a strange delicious amazement is Death,

To be without body and breathe without breath.

"I should laugh for joy if you did

not cry;

Oh, listen! Love lasts! — Love never will die.

"I am only your Angel who was your Bride;

And I know, that though dead, I have never died."


He who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow;
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!"
Weeping at the feet and head,
I can see your falling tears,
I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this,—
"I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine, it is not I."

Sweet friends! What the women lave
For its last bed of 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

Of the falcon, not the bars
Which kept him from these splendid

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 all, the soul, is here.
'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, Ihe while it hid
That treasure of his treasury,
A mind that loved him; let it lie!
Let the shard be earth" s once more,
since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!
Now 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 ye 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 awhile, 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 centre.

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 ilia Allah! yea!
Thou love divine! Thou love alway!

He that died at Azan gave

This to those who made his grave.


If on this verse of mine
Those eyes shall ever shine,
Whereto sore-wounded men have

looked for life,
Think not that for a rhyme,
Nor yet to fit the time,
I name thy name,— true victor in

this strife! But let it serve to say That, when we kneel to pray, Prayers rise for thee thine ear shall

never know; And that thy gallant deed, For God, and for our need, is in all hearts, as deep as love can


'Tis good that thy name springs
From two of Earth's fair things —
A stately city and a soft-voiced bird;
'Tis well that in all homes,
When thy sweet story comes,
And brave eyes fill — that pleasant

sounds be heard.
Oh voice! in night of fear,
As night's bird, soft to hear,
Oh great heart 1 raised like city on a


Oh watcher! worn and pale,
Good Florence Nightingale,
Thanks, loving thanks, for thy large

work and will!
England is glad of thee —
Christ, for thy charity,
Take thee to joy when hand and

heart are still!

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[The author's last poem, written a few days before his death.]

All moveless stand the ancient cedar-trees Along the drifted sand-hills where they grow; And from the darkness comes a wandering breeze, And waves them to and fro.

A murky darkness lies along the


When bright the sunbeams of the morning shone, And the eye vainly seeks by sea and land

Some light to rest upon.

No large, pale star its glimmering

vigil keeps; An inky sea reflects an inky sky; And the dark river, like a serpent,


To where its black piers lie.

Strange salty odors through the darkness steal, And through the dark, the oceanthunders roll;

Thick darkness gathers, stifling, till I feel

Its weight upon my soul.

I stretch my hands out in the empty air;

I strain my eyes into the heavy night;

Blackness of darkness!—Father, hear my prayer! Grant me to see the light!


A Harmless fellow, wasting useless days,

Am I: I love my comfort and my leisure;


Let those who wish them toil for

gold and praise; To me the summer-day brings more

of pleasure.

So, here upon the grass, I lie at ease, While solemn voices from the Past

are calling. Mingled with rustling whispers in the


And pleasant sounds of water idly falling.

There was a time when I had higher aims

Than thus to lie among the flowers and listen To listening birds, or watch the sunset's flames

On the broad river's surface glow and glisten.

There was a time, perhaps, when I had thought To make a name, a home, a bright existence: But time has shown me that my dreams are naught Save a mirage that vanished with the distance.

Well, it is gone: I care no longer now

For fame, for fortune, or for empty praises;

Rather than wear a crown upon my brow,

I'd lie forever here among the daisies.

So you, who wish for fame, good friend, pass by; With you I surely cannot think to quarrel:

Give me peace, rest, this bank whereon I lie, And spare me both the labor and the laurel!



When I shall be divorced, some ten

years hence, From this poor present self which I

am now;

When youth has done its tedious

vain expense Of passions that forever ebb and flow;

Shall I not joy youth's heats are left behind,

And breathe more happy in an even clime? —

Ah no, for then I shall begin to find A thousand virtues in this hated time!

Then I shall wish its agitations back, And all its thwarting currents of desire;

Then I shall praise the heat which then I lack,

And call this hurrying fever, generous fire;

And sigh that one thing only has been lent

To youth and age in common — discontent.


Foiled by our fellow-men, depress'd, outworn,

We leave the brutal world to take its way.

And,Patience! in another life, we say, The world shall be thrust down, and we up-borne.

And will not, then, the immortal

armies scorn The world's poor, routed leavings?

or will they, Who failed under the heat of this

life's day, Support the fervors of the heavenly



No, no! the energy of life may be Kept on after the grave, but not begun;

And he who flagg'd not in the earthly strife,

From strength to strength advancing only he,

His soul well-knit, and all his battles won,

Mounts, and that hardly, to eternal life.


'twas August, and the fierce sun overhead

Smote on the squalid streets of Bethnal Green,

And the pale weaver, through his windows seen

In Spitalfields, look'd thrice dispirited.

I met a preacher there I knew, and said:

"111 and o'erwork'd, how fare you in

this scene?"— "Bravely!" said he; "for I of late

have been much cheer'd with thoughts of

Christ, the living bread."

O human soul! as long as thou canst so

Set up a mark of everlasting light, Above the howling senses' ebb and flow,

To cheer thee, and to right thee if

thou roam — Not with lost toil thou laborest

through the night! Thou mak'st the heaven thou hop'st

indeed thy home.

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