Death

The dew is on the summer's greenest grass,
Through which the modest daisy blushing peeps;
The gentle wind that like a ghost doth pass,
A waving shadow on the corn-field keeps;
But I who love them all shall never be
Again among the woods, or on the moorland lea!

The sun shines sweetly—sweeter may it shine—
Bless'd is the brightness of a summer day;
It cheers lone hearts; and why should I repine,
Although among green fields I cannot stray?
Woods! I have grown, since last I heard you wave,
Familiar with death, and neighbour to the grave!

These words have shaken mighty human souls—
Like a sepulchre's echo drear they sound—
E'en as the owl's wild whoop at midnight rolls
The ivied remnants of old ruins round.
Yet wherefore tremble? Can the soul decay?—
Or that which thinks and feels in aught e'er fade away?

Are there not aspirations in each heart,
After a better, brighter world than this?
Longings for beings nobler in each part—
Things more exalted—steeped in deeper bliss ?
Who gave us these! What are they? Soul! in thee
The bud is budding now for immortality!

Death comes to take me where I long to be;
One pang, and bright blooms the immortal flower;
Death comes to lead me from mortality,
To lands which know not one unhappy hour:
I have a hope—a faith;—from sorrow here
I'm led by death away—why should I start and fear!

If I have loved the forest and the field,
Can I not love them deeper, better, there?
If all that power hath made, to me doth yield
Something of good and beauty—something fair—
Freed from the grossness of mortality,
May I not love them all, and better all enjoy?

A change from woe to joy—from earth to heaven,
Death gives me this—it leads me calmly where
The souls that long ago from mine were riven
May meet again! Death answers many a prayer.
Bright day! shine on—be glad:—Days brighter far
Are stretched before my eyes than those of mortal are!

I would be laid among the wildest flowers,
I would be laid where happy hearts can come:—
The worthless clay I heed not; but in hours
Of gushing noontide joy, it may be some
Will dwell upon my name; and I will be
A happy spirit there, affection's look to see.

Death is upon me, yet I fear not now:—
Open my chamber-window—let me look
Upon the silent vales—the sunny glow
That fills each alley, close, and copsewood nook:—
I know them—love them—mourn not them to leave,
Existence and its change my spirit cannot grieve!

Robert Nicoll