My Brown Little Brother of Three.
“Happy child! Thou art so exquisitely wild, I think of thee with many tears, For what may be thy lot in future years.” Wordsworth.
The “Auld Aisle”—a Burying-Ground.
The wreck of centuries is buried here; The very monuments are hoar with age; The empty tower that sentinels them all Wails when the gusts wild wander o’er the earth, And creaks the rusty gate with careless Time. Methinks I see the silent funeral Wend slowly up this hill with soulless load. Backward swings sullen the disusëd gate, And quiet, with measured steps, they enter here, And cross the moundy sward, amongst the stones, To where the red clay gapes. How mournfully Are the last rites paid to a fleshly frame! Behold the old man with the sunken eyes And broken heart. This was his eldest-born. A black-eyed boy he was, and in his youth He was his joy and hope. And oft he gazed Into his laughing face, and dreamed of times When in his youthful strength he would him shield, And help him to the stone before the door In summer time, when streamlets murmured clear. So he grew up, but scorned the homely ways Of the grey place of his nativity. He saw the sun rise from behind the hills, His well-thumbed book firm clasped in his young hand. He saw it sink within the breezy glen, And all the birds shrink from its burning face To shade in nests, his book firm clasped in hand. But most he pondered over nature’s book— The bubbled rill and the green-bladed corn, The lowly wild-flowers and the leafy trees Alive with music. His father wondered strange, And prouder grew of his bold quiet son, Who spoke without restraint or lowly eye Unto God’s minister. And he would tell At other fire-sides of his wondrous ways, The oft-trimmed lamp when others were indrawn; Nor did he check the working of the mind And wearing of the flesh. He knew no harm. So time grew older still, and he went off, With paler face and heavier looks, to where The sons of learning prosecute their toils.
But here he pined like a transplanted flower Borne from its native soil. No grass was here, Where he might lie, and watch the mighty clouds All floating in the blue. No lark was here, In love with angels, but the place was lone And dark and cold. No milkmaid’s song was here, Hushed when he passed upon the mountain side, And anxious eye that gazed till he was gone. And ’mid the throng of battling human kind, No simple eye nor horny hand sought his, Or voice, with homely accents, spoke relief. All was unknown, unheeded, but his books, Which were his very self, his only friend.
And rich he was in lore, and strong in hope, But heaven was panting for an inmate more: In heaven his place was vacant; as at home. And time grew older still, and he came home To see his father, but he ne’er went back. His body could not hold his restless soul, That longed, with eagle strength, to pierce the clouds, And so it burst this yielding bond on earth, Already, by a lengthened struggle, weak. His father saw him die. He never left His bedside; but with eyes that seemed as glazed, For ever staring at the sharpened face, He stood and stood and wept not. In that time His son saw heaven and chided all delay. His father knew not of the words of blame That blest his dying breath. He seized the clay, And clutched it desperately unto his breast. The arms fell down, nor gave returning press. And that crush broke the doting father’s heart. This is the grave beside that white gravestone: Hold back the nettles while I read its lay:—
Beneath me lies the rotting faded mask Of a young mind that studied heaven well; Ne’er in the sun of pleasure did he bask, But loved hope’s shadow and fair virtue’s dell. He died while on the road to yonder sky, And every one that wanders careless here, Tread soft, and hark! Is not time hurrying by? Begone and pray; the Day of Judgment’s near!