When We Are All Asleep

WHEN He returns, and finds the world so drear,
All sleeping, young and old, unfair and fair,
Will he stoop down and whisper in each ear,
“Awaken!” or for pity’s sake forbear,
Saying, “How shall I meet their frozen stare
Of wonder, and their eyes so full of fear?
How shall I comfort them in their despair,
If they cry out, ‘Too late! let us sleep here’?”
Perchance He will not wake us up, but when
He sees us look so happy in our rest,
Will murmur, “Poor dead women and dead men!
Dire was their doom, and weary was their quest.
Wherefore awake them into life again?
Let them sleep on untroubled—it is best.”

HOW slowly creeps the hand of Time
On the old clock’s green-mantled face!
Yea, slowly as those ivies climb,
The hours roll round with patient pace;
The drowsy rooks caw on the tower,
The tame doves hover round and round;
Below, the slow grass hour by hour
Makes green God’s sleeping-ground.

All moves, but nothing here is swift;
The grass grows deep, the green boughs shoot;
From east to west the shadows drift;
The earth feels heavenward underfoot;
The slow stream through the bridge doth stray
With water-lilies on its marge,
And slowly, pil’d with scented hay,
Creeps by the silent barge.

All stirs, but nothing here is loud:
The cushat broods, the cuckoo cries;
Faint, far up, under a white cloud,
The lark trills soft to earth and skies;
And underneath the green graves rest;
And through the place, with slow footfalls,
With snowy cambric on his breast,
The old gray Vicar crawls.

And close at hand, to see him come,
Clustering at the playground gate,
The urchins of the schoolhouse, dumb
And bashful, hang the head and wait;
The little maidens curtsey deep,
The boys their forelocks touch meanwhile,
The Vicar sees them, half asleep,
And smiles a sleepy smile.

Slow as the hand on the clock’s face,
Slow as the white cloud in the sky,
He cometh now with tottering pace
To the old vicarage hard by:
Smother’d it stands in ivy leaves,
Laurels and yews make dark the ground;
The swifts that build beneath the eaves
Wheel in still circles round.

And from the portal, green and dark,
He glances at the church-clock old—
Gray soul! why seek his eyes to mark
The creeping of that finger cold?
He cannot see, but still as stone
He pauses, listening for the chime,
And hears from that green tower intone
The eternal voice of Time.

The Wake Of Tim O'Hara

TO the Wake of O’Hara
Came company;
All St. Patrick’s Alley
Was there to see,
With the friends and kinsmen
Of the family.
On the long deal table lay Tim in white,
And at his pillow the burning light.
Pale as himself, with the tears on her cheek,
The mother receiv’d us, too full to speak;
But she heap’d the fire, and on the board
Set the black bottle with never a word,
While the company gather’d, one and all,
Men and women, big and small:
Not one in the Alley but felt a call
To the Wake of Tim O’Hara.

At the face of O’Hara,
All white with sleep,
Not one of the women
But took a peep,
And the wives new-wedded
Began to weep.
The mothers gather’d round about,
And prais’d the linen and laying out,—
For white as snow was his winding-sheet,
And all was peaceful, and clean, and sweet;
And the old wives, praising the blessed dead,
Were thronging around the old press-bed,
Where O’Hara’s widow, tatter’d and torn,
Held to her bosom the babe newborn,
And star’d all around her, with eyes forlorn,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.

For the heart of O’Hara
Was good as gold,
And the life of O’Hara
Was bright and bold,
And his smile was precious
To young and old!
Gay as a guinea, wet or dry,
With a smiling mouth, and a twinkling eye!
Had ever an answer for chaff and fun;
Would fight like a lion, with any one!
Not a neighbor of any trade
But knew some joke that the boy had made;
Not a neighbor, dull or bright,
But minded something—frolic or fight,
And whisper’d it round the fire that night,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.

“To God be glory
In death and life,
He’s taken O’Hara
From trouble and strife!”
Said one-eyed Biddy,
The apple-wife.
“God bless old Ireland!” said Mistress Hart,
Mother to Mike of the donkey-cart;
“God bless old Ireland till all be done,
She never made wake for a better son!”
And all join’d chorus, and each one said
Something kind of the boy that was dead;
And the bottle went round from lip to lip,
And the weeping widow, for fellowship,
Took the glass of old Biddy and had a sip,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.

Then we drank to O’Hara
With drams to the brim,
While the face of O’Hara
Look’d on so grim,
In the corpse-light shining
Yellow and dim.
The cup of liquor went round again,
And the talk grew louder at every drain;
Louder the tongue of the women grew!
The lips of the boys were loosening too!
The widow her weary eyelids clos’d,
And, soothed by the drop o’ drink, she doz’d;
The mother brighten’d and laugh’d to hear
Of O’Hara’s fight with the grenadier,
And the hearts of all took better cheer,
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.

Tho’ the face of O’Hara
Look’d on so wan,
In the chimney-corner
The row began—
Lame Tony was in it,
The oyster-man;
For a dirty low thief from the North came near,
And whistled “Boyne Water” in his ear,
And Tony, with never a word of grace,
Flung out his fist in the blackguard’s face;
And the girls and women scream’d out for fright,
And the men that were drunkest began to fight:
Over the tables and chairs they threw,—
The corpse-light tumbled,—the trouble grew,—
The newborn join’d in the hullabaloo,—
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.

“Be still! be silent!
Ye do a sin!
Shame be his portion
Who dares begin!”
’T was Father O’Connor
Just enter’d in!
All look’d down, and the row was done,
And sham’d and sorry was every one;
But the Priest just smil’d quite easy and free—
“Would ye wake the poor boy from his sleep?” said he:
And he said a prayer, with a shining face,
Till a kind of brightness fill’d the place;
The women lit up the dim corpse-light,
The men were quieter at the sight,
And the peace of the Lord fell on all that night
At the Wake of Tim O’Hara.

The Dream Of The World Without Death

NOW, sitting by her side, worn out with weeping,
Behold, I fell to sleep, and had a vision,
Wherein I heard a wondrous Voice intoning:

Crying aloud, “The Master on His throne
Openeth now the seventh seal of wonder,
And beckoneth back the angel men name Death.

“And at His feet the mighty Angel kneeleth,
Breathing not; and the Lord doth look upon him,
Saying, ‘Thy wanderings on earth are ended.’

“And lo! the mighty Shadow sitteth idle
Even at the silver gates of heaven,
Drowsily looking in on quiet waters,
And puts his silence among men no longer.”

The world was very quiet. Men in traffic
Cast looks over their shoulders; pallid seamen
Shiver’d to walk upon the decks alone;

And women barr’d their doors with bars of iron,
In the silence of the night; and at the sunrise
Trembled behind the husbandmen afield.

I could not see a kirkyard near or far;
I thirsted for a green grave, and my vision
Was weary for the white gleam of a tombstone.

But harkening dumbly, ever and anon
I heard a cry out of a human dwelling,
And felt the cold wind of a lost one’s going.

One struck a brother fiercely, and he fell,
And faded in a darkness; and that other
Tore his hair, and was afraid, and could not perish.

One struck his aged mother on the mouth,
And she vanish’d with a gray grief from his hearthstone.
One melted from her bairn, and on the ground

With sweet unconscious eyes the bairn lay smiling.
And many made a weeping among mountains,
And hid themselves in caverns, and were drunken.

I heard a voice from out the beauteous earth,
Whose side roll’d up from winter into summer,
Crying, “I am grievous for my children.”

I heard a voice from out the hoary ocean,
Crying, “Burial in the breast of me were better,
Yea, burial in the salt flags and green crystals.”

I heard a voice from out the hollow ether,
Saying, “The thing ye curs’d hath been abolish’d—
Corruption and decay, and dissolution!”

And the world shriek’d, and the summertime was bitter,
And men and women fear’d the air behind them;
And for lack of its green graves the world was hateful.

Now at the bottom of a snowy mountain
I came upon a woman thin with sorrow,
Whose voice was like the crying of a seagull:

Saying, “O Angel of the Lord, come hither,
And bring me him I seek for on thy bosom,
That I may close his eyelids and embrace him.

“I curse thee that I cannot look upon him!
I curse thee that I know not he is sleeping!
Yet know that he has vanish’d upon God!

“I laid my little girl upon a wood bier,
And very sweet she seem’d, and near unto me;
And slipping flowers into her shroud was comfort.

“I put my silver mother in the darkness,
And kiss’d her, and was solaced by her kisses,
And set a stone, to mark the place, above her.

“And green, green were their sleeping places,
So green that it was pleasant to remember
That I and my tall man would sleep beside them.

“The closing of dead eyelids is not dreadful,
For comfort comes upon us when we close them,
And tears fall, and our sorrow grows familiar;

“And we can sit above them where they slumber,
And spin a dreamy pain into a sweetness,
And know indeed that we are very near them.

“But to reach out empty arms is surely dreadful,
And to feel the hollow empty world is awful,
And bitter grows the silence and the distance.

“There is no space for grieving or for weeping;
No touch, no cold, no agony to strive with,
And nothing but a horror and a blankness!”

Now behold I saw a woman in a mud hut
Raking the white spent embers with her fingers,
And fouling her bright hair with the white ashes.

Her mouth was very bitter with the ashes;
Her eyes with dust were blinded; and her sorrow
Sobb’d in the throat of her like gurgling water.

And all around the voiceless hills were hoary,
But red lights scorch’d their edges; and above her
There was a soundless trouble of the vapors.

“Whither, and O whither,” said the woman,
“O Spirit of the Lord, hast thou convey’d them,
My little ones, my little son and daughter?

“For, lo! we wander’d forth at early morning,
And winds were blowing round us, and their mouths
Blew rosebuds to the rosebuds, and their eyes

“Look’d violets at the violets, and their hair
Made sunshine in the sunshine, and their passing
Left a pleasure in the dewy leaves behind them;

“And suddenly my little son look’d upward
And his eyes were dried like dewdrops; and his going
Was like a blow of fire upon my face;

“And my little son was gone. My little daughter
Look’d round me for him, clinging to my vesture;
But the Lord had drawn him from me, and I knew it

“By the sign He gives the stricken, that the lost one
Lingers nowhere on the earth, on the hill or valley,
Neither underneath the grasses nor the tree roots.

“And my shriek was like the splitting of an ice-reef,
And I sank among my hair, and all my palm
Was moist and warm where the little hand had fill’d it.

“Then I fled and sought him wildly, hither and thither—
Though I knew that he was stricken from me wholly
By the token that the Spirit gives the stricken.

“I sought him in the sunlight and the starlight,
I sought him in great forests, and in waters
Where I saw my own pale image looking at me.

“And I forgot my little bright-hair’d daughter,
Though her voice was like a wild-bird’s far behind me,
Till the voice ceas’d, and the universe was silent.

“And stilly, in the starlight, came I backward
To the forest where I miss’d him; and no voices
Brake the stillness as I stoop’d down in the starlight,

“And saw two little shoes filled up with dew,
And no mark of little footsteps any farther,
And knew my little daughter had gone also.”

But beasts died; yea, the cattle in the yoke,
The milk-cow in the meadow, and the sheep,
And the dog upon the doorstep: and men envied.

And birds died; yea, the eagle at the sun gate,
The swan upon the waters, and the farm fowl,
And the swallows on the housetops: and men envied.

And reptiles; yea, the toad upon the road-side,
The slimy, speckled snake among the grass,
The lizard on the ruin: and men envied.

The dog in lonely places cried not over
The body of his master; but it miss’d him,
And whin’d into the air, and died, and rotted.

The traveller’s horse lay swollen in the pathway,
And the blue fly fed upon it; but no traveller
Was there; nay, not his footprint on the ground.

The cat mew’d in the midnight, and the blind
Gave a rustle, and the lamp burnt blue and faint,
And the father’s bed was empty in the morning.

The mother fell to sleep beside the cradle,
Rocking it, while she slumber’d, with her foot,
And waken’d,—and the cradle there was empty.

I saw a two-years’ child, and he was playing;
And he found a dead white bird upon the doorway,
And laugh’d, and ran to show it to his mother.

The mother moan’d, and clutch’d him, and was bitter,
And flung the dead white bird across the threshold;
And another white bird flitted round and round it,

And utter’d a sharp cry, and twitter’d and twitter’d,
And lit beside its dead mate, and grew busy,
Strewing it over with green leaves and yellow.
So far, so far to seek for were the limits
Of affliction; and men’s terror grew a homeless
Terror, yea, and a fatal sense of blankness.

There was no little token of distraction,
There was no visible presence of bereavement,
Such as the mourner easeth out his heart on.

There was no comfort in the slow farewell,
No gentle shutting of beloved eyes,
Nor beautiful broodings over sleeping features.

There were no kisses on familiar faces,
No weaving of white grave-clothes, no last pondering
Over the still wax cheeks and folded fingers.

There was no putting tokens under pillows,
There was no dreadful beauty slowly fading,
Fading like moonlight softly into darkness.

There were no churchyard paths to walk on, thinking
How near the well-beloved ones are lying.
There were no sweet green graves to sit and muse on,

Till grief should grow a summer meditation,
The shadow of the passing of an angel,
And sleeping should seem easy, and not cruel.

Nothing but wondrous parting and a blankness.

But I woke, and, lo! the burthen was uplifted,
And I pray’d within the chamber where she slumber’d,
And my tears flow’d fast and free, but were not bitter.

I eas’d my heart three days by watching near her,
And made her pillow sweet with scent and flowers,
And could bear at last to put her in the darkness.

And I heard the kirk-bells ringing very slowly,
And the priests were in their vestments, and the earth
Dripp’d awful on the hard wood, yet I bore it.

And I cried, “O unseen Sender of Corruption,
I bless Thee for the wonder of Thy mercy,
Which softeneth the mystery and the parting:

“I bless thee for the change and for the comfort,
The bloomless face, shut eyes, and waxen fingers,—
For Sleeping, and for Silence, and Corruption.”