Nor deem that when the hand that molders here
Was raised in menace, realms were chilled with fear,
And armies mustered at the sign, as when Clouds rise on clouds before the rainy East,
Gray captains leading bands of veteran men And fiery youths to be the vulture's feast.
Not thus were raged the mighty wars that gave
The victory to her who fills this grave;
Alone her task was wrought, Alone the battle fought; Through that long strife her constant hope was staid
On God alone, nor looked for other aid.
She met the hosts of sorrow with a look
That altered not beneath the frown they wore, And soon the lowering brood were tamed, and took,
Meekly, her gentle rule, and frowned no more. Her soft hand put aside the assaults of wrath,
And calmly broke in twain The fiery shafts of pain, And rent the nets of passion from her path.
By that victorious hand despair was slain. With love she vanquished hate and overcame
Evil with good, in her Great Master's name.
Her glory is not of this shadowy state,
Glory that with the fleeting season dies; But when she entered at the sapphire gate
What joy was radiant in celestial eyes! How heaven's bright depths with sounding welcomes rung,
And flowers of heaven by shining hands were flung!
And He who, long before, Pain, scorn, and sorrow bore, The Mighty Sufferer, with aspect sweet,
Smiled on the timid stranger from his seat;
He who returning, glorious, from the grave,
Dragged Death, disarmed, in chains, a crouching slave.
See, as I linger here, the sun grows low;
Cool airs are murmuring that the night is near. Oh gentle sleeper, from thy grave I go
Consoled though sad, in hope and yet in fear. Brief is the time, I know, The warfare scarce begun; Yet all may win the triumphs thou hast won.
Still flows the fount whose waters strengthened thee;
The victors' names are yet too few to fill Heaven's mighty roll; the glorious armory,
That ministered to thee, is open still.
WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT.
Thou art gone to the grave—but we will not deplore thee,
Though sorrows and darkness encompass the tomb; The Saviour has passed through its portals before thee,
And the lamp of His love is thy guide through the gloom.
Thou art gone to the grave—we no longer behold thee,
Nor tread the rough path of the world by thy side; But the wide arms of mercy are spread to enfold thee,
And sinners may hope, since the Sinless has died.
Thou art gone to the grave—and, its mansion forsaking,
Perhaps thy tried spirit in doubt lingered long, But the sunshine of heaven beamed bright on thy waking,
And the song which thou heard'st was the seraphim's song.
Thou art gone to the grave—but 't were wrong to deplore thee,
When God was thy ransom, thy guardian, thy guide; He gave thee, and took thee, and soon will restore thee,
Where death hath no sting, since the Saviour hath died.