A Leaf from the Old Forest

by John D. Cossar

Now the old church bell
Tolls forth its death knell,
Mournfully to tell
The hour has come at last,
In heavy sadness past,
To bury the dead,
And in silence bid.
Then the mourners go,
All mournfully slow,
Every heart beating low
The march of the dead.
All with soft and gentle tread
Unto the sepulchre sped,
And humbly bent every head,
Bearing to her last home the dead,

In all the obsequies due;
Every follower, in presence true,
Many a well-known neighbour view,
Paying his last meet respect
Unto her who has gone,
And whose remembrance shone
Bright in the memory of them.
Now through the old town they pace—
The good old familiar place,
Where often in time before
She, in life’s abounding store,
Passed by many a friendly door.
But now, how changed is the scene!
She, cold in death’s awful sheen,
Is borne unto the still hallowed green.
Every passer turns to see,
And they say, “Who can it be?”
And they ponder in the thought—
One more unto death brought.
Soon may we, too, soon be sought.
But they who her in life knew
Feel the truth more strangely true,
And they take a sadder view
Of the great loss to the few,
Who received the bosom love
Which her kind deeds went to prove.

Now they tread in the hallowed ground,
Where the sons of ages have found
Together a home.
And they pause by the chosen ground,
And all, in a silence profound,
Hear the words of comfort flow,
In deep power, sadly and low,
From the messenger of love,
Appointed of God above
To tell to His people peace,
And from care a glad release;
And his words of comfort are
Sweeter to their hearts by far
Than balm to a seething wound.
And now they lay
In the cold clay,
To moulder away,
All that is mortal of her.
O grave! receive her;
Ye have no terror,
But to relieve her
A world of woe.
’Tis but a season,
Waiting in reason,
She shall be there.

She hath gone down corruptible,
But shall rise incorruptible,
Adornéd and fair,
When this grave which is closéd
Shall again be discloséd,
And the Good Shepherd shall call
Together unto Him all
His people, faithful and good,
Who in life steadfast have stood.
O widower! weep not,
And, orphans, lament not.
Weep not by the cold grave,
Long not that ye might have
Her with you again;
But let her remain
Alone in the grave,
In the peace of her last long abode.
Far sweeter is death unto her now.

AFTER THE BURIAL.

All hath been finished now;
And from the darkened brow
Of the grave the people move,
Pondering his own heart to prove,
Each unto his home.

While of the old dead’s demesne
Hallowed fancies come,
Living and clear, urgent and fain,
As they visit in thought again
And again the place where remain
Their fathers, the sons of many ages,
Gathered from the ever-turning pages
Of the volume of time,
Like a long running rhyme—
Old age and youth,
Falsehood and truth,
Beauty and pride
Side unto side
In that old churchyard,
In the sacred guard
Of hallowed rest.
Then a behest
Moveth the breast
To be holy and meek,
Lowly to seek
Life unto life,
Bearing through strife
Unto the end,
Trying to blend
Love unto life.

HOME SORROW.

Woe is the guest
Of every breast
As they turn from the grave,
Bordered in a wave
Of melancholy deep.
But their woe is not as our woe
In fervor or depth; they cannot know
The fulness to weep
Which we know,—
We who have held the keep
Of her noble heart,
Who was of our unity the crown,
And who was the bosom of our home,
Where did the soul of every member come.
We know the part,
As true mourners, to weep;
For never again,
While time doth remain,
Shall we hear her voice
Relating in choice
Some well-pleasing tale,
Which never could fail
The hours to beguile,
As many a smile

Ran from face unto face.
But now her wonted place
Is vacant, and we
Can sorrow but see
In all things which she
By remembrance comes.
Yet there is a soft tranquil in presence of grief,
Which filleth the bosom of hallowed relief,
Making the pang sweet which rendeth the heart,
Soothing the sorrow and easing the smart,
Leading the mind from vain follies away,
To seek a more sacred and truthful array.