Volume 7 — All Souls' Day—1867.

Dying? along the trembling mountain flies The fearful whisper fast from cot to cot; Strong fathers stand aghast and mothers' eyes Melt as their white lips stammer, "Not, oh! not Him of all others? Nay, Not him who from our hearths so oft drove death away?" Well may those pale groups gather at each door. Well may those tears that dread the worst be shed. The hand that healed their ills will bless no more, The life that served to lengthen theirs has fled; And while they pray and weep, Unto his rest he passeth like a child asleep. Ah! this is sudden! why, this very morn He rode amongst us: sick men woke to hear The step of his black pacer: the new-born Smiled at him from their cradles; many a tear On faces wan and dim. He dried to-day: to-night those cheeks are wet for him. For there he lies, together gently laid The hands we were so proud of, his white hair Making the silver halo that it made In life around his brow; as if in prayer The gentle face composed. With nameless peace o'ershadowing the eyelids closed. And as beside him through the night we hold Our solitary watch, I had not started To hear my name break from him, as of old, Or see the tranquil lips a moment parted. To speak the word unsaid, The last supreme adieu that instant death forbade. I dread the day-dawn, for his silent rest Befits the night: I half believe him mine, While in the tapers' shadowy light, his breast Seems heaving, and, amid the pale moonshine That wanders o'er the lawn. Crouch the still hounds unknowing that their master's gone. But when the morning at his window stands In glory beckoning, and he answers not; Not for the wringing of the widowed hands, Or orphans wrestling with their bitter lot, I feel, old friend, too well, That naught can wake thee but the final miracle. Was it but yesterday, that at my gate, Beneath the over-arching oaks we met; Throned in his saddle, statue-like he sate, A horseman every inch: I see him yet, His morning mission done. His deep-mouthed pack behind him trailing, one by one. Mute are the mountains now! No more that cry Of the full chase by all the breezes borne Down the defiles, while echo's swift reply Speeds the loud chorus! Nevermore the horn Of our lost chief will shake Those tempest-riven crags, or pierce the startled brake! Those summits were his refuge when the touch Of gloom was on him, and the gathered care Of long life, that braved and suffered much, Drove him from beaten walks, to breathe the air That, haunts gray Carrick's crest, And spur from dawn to dusk till effort purchased rest. But yet, in all these thirty years, how few The days we saw not the familiar form Amid the valleys passing, till it grew Part of the landscape: through the sun or storm With equal front he rode, Punctual as planets moving in the paths of God. I've seen him, when the frozen tempest beat, Breast it as gayly as the birds that played Upon the drifts: and through the deadly heat That drove the fainting reapers to the shade. Smiling he passed along. Erect the good gray head, and on his lips a song. I've known him too, by anguish chained abed, Forsake his midnight pillow with a moan, And meekly ride wherever pity led, To heal a sorrow slighter than his own; Or rich or poor the same— It mattered not: let any sorrow call, he came. Thy life was sacrifice, my own old friend, Yet sacrifice that earned a sacred joy, For in thy breast kept beating to the end, The trust and honest gladness of a boy; The seventy years that span Thy course, leave thee as pure as when their date began. Who could have dreamed the sharp, sad overthrow Of such a life, so tender, strong, and brave? My pulse seems answering thy finger now— 'Twas one step from the stirrup to the grave! Oh! lift your load with care, And gently to its rest the precious burden bear. All Souls' Day! as they place him in the aisle. The bells his youth obeyed for Mass are ringing; And, as beneath the churchyard gate we file, To latest rite his honored relics bringing. You'd think the dead had all Arrayed their little homes for some high festival. As if for him the flowering chaplets, strewn Throughout God's acre, breathe a second spring; To him the ivy on the sculptured stone A welcome from the tomb seems whispering: The buried wear their best. As, in their midst, their old companion takes his rest. Yes, he is yours, not ours: set down the bier: To you we leave him with a ready trust: Beneath this sod there's scarce a spirit here That was not once his friend: Oh! guard his dust! And if your ashes may Thrill to old love, your graves are gladder than our hearths to-day.