MARCHES FOR THE DEAD.
Reading edition
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BY WM. WALLACE, AUTHOR OF “JERUSALEM,” “STAR LYRA,” ETC.
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A march for the Dead—the dreamless Dead
Of the tomb and the chancel aisle,
Where the cypress bends or the banner-spread
Waves round in the holy pile:—
Let the chimes be low as the awful breath
Of the midnight winds that creep,
With a pulse as faint as the step of Death,
O’er the chambers of the deep,
When the stars are in a solemn noon
Like o’er-wearied watchers there,
And a seraph-glory from the moon
Floats down through the sleeping air.
A march for the Dead—the lovely Dead
Whose voices still we hear,
Like a spirit-anthem, mournfully
Around a brother’s bier:
Their eyes still beam, as of old, on ours—
And their words still cheer the soul—
And their smiles still shine, like star-lit bow’rs,
Where the tides of Being roll.
Then, oh! minstrel strike your sweetest lyre,
Let its notes to feeling true,
Be warm as the sacred Eastern fire,
But, still, as chastened too:
And Sorrow there will incline her head,
While Hope sits fondly by—
With one hand pointing to the Dead,
The other to the sky.
A march for the Dead—the holy Dead—
They hallowed every sod
Like the rainbows resting on our earth—
But soaring towards God.
But, oh! what a diapason there
From the thrilling chords should start!
Like the lightning leaping from its lair
To wither Nature’s heart?
Like the Thunder when the Tempest’s hand
Unveils his giant form,
And strikes, with all his cloudy band,
The organs of the storm?
Ah, no! Let the march be soft, but glad
As a Sabbath evening’s breeze,—
For why should the heart of man be sad
When he thinks of these? Of these?
A march for the Dead—the awful Dead—
Like mountain peaks, sublime,
Which show, as they rise, some River’s length,
They mark the stream of Time.
How dread they appear as each lies in his tomb,
With the earthy worm revelling there—
While the grim, hairless skulls from the terrible gloom
Are gleaming so ghastly and bare.
Solemn and slow, with many a wail between,
Harp give thy song the deepest, grandest flow,
While yonder moon, so dim, so cold, serene,
Lights up the burial march of those below:
And from afar the billows of the Main
Send forth their long-drawn, melancholy moan—
Most fitting chorus, for this fearful strain
Breathed in the Temples of the Night alone.
A march for the Dead—the mighty Dead,
Whose mind like oceans hurl’d
Along the trembling Alps, have shook
A myriad-peopled world.
They were the links of that mighty chain,
Which the heaven unites to man,
Since first from its realm the morning strain
Of the minstrel-stars began:
And along them have flashed for six thousand years
A flame to this lowly sod,
(Oh! holier far than the light of the spheres,)
From the mighty heart of God!
Yet once more, oh! Bard—yet once more re-illume
The song-god’s olden fire,
And shed o’er the depths of the terrible tomb
The beauty of the lyre.
Give its full notes abroad—let its anthem ring out
Through the aisles of the blue-beaming air—
Wild, joyous and loud as the rapturous shout
When a great host of angels are there,
And the Heavens are all glad and wide-arching above.
Kiss the far-distant hills, like the warm lips of Love,
When she cradles the stars and the earth on her breast,
While the waters lie still in their sleep,
And the banners of Evening, unfurl’d in the west,
Pavilion her Deity’s sleep.
It is well!—
Lo, the spell!
It shakes every shroud!
How they rise!—How they rise!—
The Great and the Proud—
Each a God, as you see by their glorious eyes!
’Tis a terrible throng!—
And Thought from her Pyramid splendidly bows
And sits like a glory-wreathed crown on their brows,—
As they thunder along.
Hurry on! Hurry on!—ye have not lived in vain
As we see by each radiant head!—
Oh, minstrel still utter that sonorous strain—
’Tis the march of the mighty—the Dead!