'Tis said that when our coldness grieves you sore,
Ye quit betimes that solitude's cold shore
Where ye forsaken dwell,
And flit about in darkness' sad constraint,
The while from spectral lips your mournful plaint
Upon the winds outswell.
When nightingales their woodland nests have left,
The autumn sky of gray, white-capped, cloud-reft,
Prepares the shroud which Winter soon shall spread
On frozen fields; there comes a day thrice blest,
When earth forgetting, all our musings rest
On those who are no more the dreamless dead.
The dead their graves forsake upon this day,
As we have seen doves mount with joyous grace,
Escape an instant from their prison drear,
Their coming brings us no repellent fear.
Their mien is dreamy, passing sweet their face,
Their fixed and hollow eyes cannot betray.
When spectral coming thus unseen they gaze
On crowds who, kneeling in the temple, pray
Forgiveness for them, one faint, joyful ray,
As light upon the opal, glittering plays,
On faces pale and calm an instant rests,
And brings a moment's warmth to clay-cold breasts.
They, the elect of God, with souls of saints,
Who bear each destined load without complaints,
Who walk all day beneath God's watching eye,
And sleep the night 'neath angels' ministry,
Nor made the sport of visions that arise
To show th' abyss of fire to dreaming eyes.
All they who while on earth, the pure of heart,
The heav'nly echoes hear, and who in part
Make smooth for man rude ways he has to tread,
And knowing earthly vanity, outspread
Their virtue like a carpet rich and rare,
And walk o'er evil, touching it nowhere.
When come sad guests from off that suff'ring shore,
Which Dante saw in dream sublime of yore,
Appearing midst us here that day most blessed,
'Tis but to those; for they alone have guessed
The secrets of the grave; alone they understand
The pallid mendicants, who ask for heav'n.
Of Israel's King the psalms, inspired cries,
With Job's sublime distress, commingled rise;
The sanctuary sobs them through the naves
While wak'ning subtle fear, the bell's deep toll
With fun'ral sounds, demanding pity's dole
For wand'ring ghosts, as countless as the waves.
Give on this day, when over all the earth
The Church to God makes moan for parted worth;
Your own remorse, regret at least to calm
Awak'ning memory's dying flame, give balm,
Flow'rs for their graves, and prayer for each loved soul,
Those gifts divine can yet the dead console.