THE FUNERAL GENIUS,
AN ANCIENT STATUE.
“Debout, couronné de fleurs, les bras élevés et posés sur sa tête, et le dos appuyé contre un pin, ce génie semble exprimer par son attitude le repos des morts. Les bas-reliefs des tombeaux offrent souvent des figures semblables.”—Visconti, Description des Antiques du Musée Royal.
Thou shouldst be look’d on when the starlight falls
Through the blue stillness of the summer air,
Not by the torch-fire wavering on the walls—
It hath too fitful and too wild a glare!
And thou!—thy rest, the soft, the lovely, seems
To ask light steps, that will not break its dreams.
Flowers are upon thy brow; for so the dead
Were crown’d of old, with pale spring-flowers like these:
Sleep on thine eye hath sunk; yet softly shed
As from the wing of some faint southern breeze:
And the pine-boughs o’ershadow thee with gloom,
Which of the grove seems breathing—not the tomb.
They fear’d not death, whose calm and gracious thought
Of the last hour hath settled thus in thee!
They who thy wreath of pallid roses wrought,
And laid thy head against the forest tree,
As that of one, by music’s dreamy close,
On the wood-violets lull’d to deep repose.
They fear’d not death!—yet who shall say his touch
Thus lightly falls on gentle things and fair?
Doth he bestow, or will he leave so much
Of tender beauty as thy features wear?
Thou sleeper of the bower! on whose young eyes
So still a night, a night of summer, lies!
Had they seen aught like thee? Did some fair boy
Thus, with his graceful hair, before them rest?
—His graceful hair, no more to wave in joy,
But drooping, as with heavy dews oppress’d;
And his eye veil’d so softly by its fringe,
And his lip faded to the white-rose tinge?
Oh! happy, if to them the one dread hour
Made known its lessons from a brow like thine!
If all their knowledge of the spoiler’s power
Came by a look so tranquilly divine!
—Let him who thus hath seen the lovely part,
Hold well that image to his thoughtful heart.
But thou, fair slumberer! was there less of woe,
Or love, or terror, in the days of old,
That men pour’d out their gladd’ning spirit’s flow,
Like sunshine, on the desolate and cold,
And gave thy semblance to the shadowy king,
Who for deep souls had then a deeper sting?
In the dark bosom of the earth they laid
Far more than we—for loftier faith is ours!
Their gems were lost in ashes—yet they made
The grave a place of beauty and of flowers,
With fragrant wreaths, and summer boughs array’d,
And lovely sculpture gleaming through the shade.
Is it for us a darker gloom to shed
O’er its dim precincts?—do we not intrust
But for a time its chambers with our dead,
And strew immortal seed upon the dust?
Why should we dwell on that which lies beneath,
When living light hath touch’d the brow of death?