Darkening the air precipitate, and gathered scatheless from the fire;

The Himalayan peaks shall yield their charge, and the desolate steppes of Siberia,

The Maelström disengulf its spoil, and the iceberg manumit its captive: All shall teem with life, the converging fragments of humanity,

Till every conscious essence greet his individual frame;

For in some dignified similitude, alike, yet different in glory,
This body shall be shaped anew, fit dwelling for the soul:

The hovel hath grown to a palace, the bulb hath burst into the flower,
Matter hath put on incorruption, and is at peace with spirit.

Amen,—and so it shall be :—but now, the scene is drear,—
Yea, though promises and hope strive to cheat its sadness;
Full of grief, though faith herself is strong to speed the soul,
For the partner of its toil is left behind to endure an ordeal of change.
Dear partner, dear and frail, my loved though humble home,—
Should I cast thee off without a pang, as a garment flung aside?
Many years, for joy and sorrow, have I dwelt in thee,

How shall I be reckless of thy weal, nor hope for thy perfection?
This also, He that lent thee for my uses in mortality,
Shall well fulfill with boundless praise on that returning day.
Behold, thou shalt be glorified; thou, mine abject friend,—
And should I meanly scorn thy state, until it rise to greatness?
Far be it, O my soul, from thine expectant essence,
To be heedless, if indignity or folly desecrate those thine ashes:
Keep them safe with careful love; and let the mound be holy;
And, thou that passest by, revere the waiting dead.

Naples sitteth by the sea, keystone of an arch of azure,
Crowned by consenting nations peerless queen of gayety:

She laugheth at the wrath of Ocean, she mocketh the fury of Vesuvius,
She spurneth disease and misery and famine, that crowd her sunny street:
The giddy dance, the merry song, the festal glad procession,

The noonday slumber and the midnight serenade, all these make up her

Life;

Her Life?-and what her Death ?-look we to the end of life,-
Solon, and Tellus the Athenian, wisely have ye pointed to the grave.
For behold yon dreary precinct,-those hundreds of stone wells,—(16)
A pit for a day, a pit for a day,-a pit to be sealed for a year;

And in the gloom of night, they raised the year-closed lid,——
Look in,-for gnawing lime hath half consumed the carcasses;
Thus, they hurl the daily dead into that horrible pit,

The dead that only died this day,-as unconsidered offal!

There, a stark white heap, unwept, unloved, uncared for,

Old men and maidens, young men and infants, mingle in hideous corruption:

Fling in the gnawing lime,-seal up the charnel for a year;

For lo, a morrow's dawn hath tinged the mountain summit.

O fair false city, thou gay and gilded harlot,

Woe, for thy wanton heart; woe, for thy wicked hardness :

Woe unto thee, that the lightsomeness of Life, beneath Italian suns, Should meet the solemnity of Death in a sepulchre so foul and fearful.

For that, even to the best, the wise and pure and pious,

Death, repulsive king, thine iron rule is terrible :

Yea, and even at the best, in company of buried kindred,

With hallowing rites, and friendly tears, and the dear old country church, Death, cold and lonely, thy frigid face is hateful,

The bravest look on thee with dread, the humblest curse thy coming.

Still,
ye unwise among mankind, your foolishness hath added fears;
The crowded cemetery, the catacomb of bones, the pestilential vault,
With fancy's gliding ghost at eve, her moans and flaky footfalls,
And the gibbering train of terror to fright your coward hearts.
We speak not here of sin, nor the phantoms of a bloody conscience,
Nor of solaces, and merciful pardon; we heed but the inevitable grave;
The grave, that wage of guilt, that due return to dust,

The grave, that goal of earth, and starting-post for heaven.

Plant it with laurels, sprinkle it with lilies, set it upon yonder dewy hill,
Midst holy prayers, and generous grief, and consecrating blessings:
Let Sophocles sleep among his ivy, green perennial garlands, (1)
Let olives shade their Virgil, and roses bloom above Corinne;
To his foster-mother, Ocean, intrust the mariner in hope,
The warrior's spirit, let it rise on high, from the flaming fragrant pyre.
But heap not coffins and corruption to infect the mass of living,
Nor steal from odious realities the charitable poetry of Death:
It is wise to gild uncomeliness, it is wise to mask necessity,

It is wise from cheerful sights and sounds to draw their gentle uses;

Hide the facts, the bitter facts, the foul and fearful facts,

Tend the body well in hope, this were praise and wisdom ;

But to plunge in gloom the parting soul, that hath loved its clay tenement

so long,

This were vanity and folly, the counsel of moroseness and despair.

Not thus the Scythian of old time welcomed Death with songs;
Not thus the shrewd Egyptian decorated Death with braveries;
Not thus on his funeral tower sleepeth the sun-worshipping Parsee ;
Not thus the Moslem saint lieth in his arabesque mausoleum;
Not thus the wild red Indian, hunter of the far Missouri,

In flowering trees hath nested up his forest-loving ancestry; (18)
Not thus the Switzer mountaineer scattereth ribboned garlands
About the rustic cross that halloweth the bed of his beloved;
Not thus the village maiden wisheth she may die in spring,

With store of violets and cowslips to be sprinkled on her snow-white shroud;

Not thus the dying poet asketh a cheerful grave,—

Lay him in the sunshine, friends, nor sorrow that a Christian hath departed!

Yea, it is the poetry of Death, an Orpheus gladdening Hades,

To care with mindful love for all so dear-and dead;

To think of them in hope, to look for them in joy, and-but for its simple

vanity,

To pray with all the earnestness of nature for souls who cannot change. For the tree is felled, and boughed, and bare, and the Measurer standeth

with his line;

The chance is gone for ever, and is past the reach of prayer :

For men and angels, good and ill, have rendered all their witness;
The trial is over, the jury are gone in, and none can now be heard;
Well are they agreed upon the verdict, just, and fixed, and final,
And the sentence showeth clear before the Judge hath spoken:
Now-while resting matter is at peace within the tomb,

The conscious spirit watcheth in unspeakable suspense;

Racked with a fearful looking forward, or blissfully feeding on the fore

taste,

Waiting souls in cager expectation pass the solemn interval;

They slumber not in death, but awaken, quickened to the terror of the judgment;

They lie not insensate among darkness, but exult, looking to the light. Idiocy, brightening on the instant, when that veil is torn,

Is grateful that his torpor here hath left him as an innocent;

The young child, stricken as he played, and guileless babes unborn,
Freed from fetters of the flesh, burst into mind immediate:

Madness judgeth wisely, and the visions of the lunatic are gone,
And each hasteneth to praise the mercy that made him irresponsible.
For soul is one, though manifold in act, working the machinery of brain,
Reason, fancy, conscience, passion, are but varying phases;

If, in God's wise purpose, the machine were shattered or confused,
Still is soul the same, though it exhibit with a difference :
Therefore, dissipate the brain, and set its inmate free,
Behold, the maniacs and embryos stand in their place intelligent.
That solvent eateth away all dross, leaving the gold intact:
Matter lingereth in the retort, spirit hath flown to the receiver:
And lo, that recipient of the spirits, it is some aerial world,
An oasis midway on the desert space, separating earth from heaven,
A prison-house for essences incorporate, a limbus vague and wild,
Tartarus for evil, and Paradise for good, that intermediate Hades.

O Death, what art thou? a Lawgiver that never altereth.

Fixing the consummating seal, whereby the deeds of life become established;

O Death, what art thou? a stern and silent usher,

Leading to the judgment for Eternity, after the trial scene of time;

O Death, what art thou? an husbandman, that reapeth always,

Out of season, as in season, with the sickle in his hand :

O Death, what art thou? the shadow unto every substance,
In the bower as in the battle, haunting night and day:
O Death, what art thou? nurse of dreamless slumbers
Freshening the fevered flesh to a wakefulness eternal:
O Death, what art thou? strange and solemn Alchymist,
Elaborating life's elixir from these clayey crucibles:
O Death, what art thou? antitype of nature's marvels,
The seed and dormant chrysalis bursting into energy and glory.
Thou calm, safe anchorage for the shattered hulls of men,-
Thou spot of gelid shade, after the hot-breathed desert,-
Thou silent waiting-hall, where Adam meeteth with his children,-
How full of dread, how full of hope, loometh inevitable Death:

Of dread, for all have sinned; of hope, for One hath saved;
The dread is drowned in joy, the hope is filled with immortality!
-Pass along, pilgrim of life, go to thy grave unfearing,
The terrors are but shadows now that haunt the vale of Death.

OF IMMORTALITY.

GIRD up thy mind to contemplation, trembling inhabitant of earth:
Tenant of a hovel for a day,-thou art heir of the universe for ever!
For, neither congealing of the grave, nor gulfing waters of the firmament,
Nor expansive airs of heaven, nor dissipative fires of Gehenna,

Nor rust of rest, nor wear, nor waste, nor loss, nor chance, nor change,
Shall avail to quench or overwhelm the spark of soul within thee!

Thou art an imperishable leaf on the evergreen bay-tree of Existence; A word from Wisdom's mouth, that cannot be unspoken;

A ray of Love's own light; a drop in Mercy's sea;

A creature, marvellous and fearful, begotten by the fiat of Omnipotence.

I, that speak in weakness, and ye, that hear in charity,

Shall not cease to live and feel, though flesh must see corruption;

For the prison-gates of matter shall be broken, and the shackled soul go

free,

Free, for good or ill, to satisfy its appetence for ever:

For ever,—dreadful doom, to be hurried on eternally to evil,—

For ever,-happy fate, to ripen into perfectness-for ever!

And is there a thought within thy heart, O slave of sin and fear,

A black and harmful hope, that erring spirit dieth!

That primal disobedience hath ensured the death of soul,

And separate evil sealed it thine-thy curse, Annihilation?

Heed thou this; there is a Sacrifice; the Maker is Redeemer of his crea

ture;

Freely unto each, universally to all, is restored the privilege of essence: Whether unto grace or guilt, all must live through Him,

Live in vital joy, or live in dying woe:

Death in Adam, life in Christ; the curse hung upon the cross: