The Poetical Works of Elizabeth Margaret Chandler/Death

Death
I have been gazing on the resting place Of the cold sleepers of the earth—who trod This busy planet for a little space, Then laid them down, and took the verdant sod To curtain the low cot wherein they slept, Forgotten save by some few hearts that o'er them wept.

'T is strange—so lately they were living forms, Breathing and moving; now the vernal sun Looks down upon their silent graves, nor warms One pulse to action—life with them is done; And the turf blooms as quietly, as though No forms of human mould were slumbering below.

And this shall be my lot!—a little while, And I shall, too, lie down and be at rest, In silence and in darkness; earth will smile In spring's rich garniture, and o'er my breast The wild-flower shed its sweets—but there will be No gladness in bright hues or fragrant breath for me.

Oh, Death! they call thee terrible—but life Hath pain, and blighted hopes and bitter tears, The pang of keen remorse, the daily strife 'Twixt jarring passions, the false smile that sears The heart to kindly feelings, and the dread, That e'en what bliss is ours, within our grasp will fade.

Nor is it very dreadful to lie down In momentary darkness, and awake In a bright world of happiness, unknown, And unimagined! But 't is sad to take The last farewell of earthly things, and know That we have left fond hearts to lingering years of woe.

And herein lies the bitterness—but when The parting pang is over, need we fear To tread thy narrow pathway—and cling then To life's poor relics?—It is true, that here We have bright moments, scenes and hours of joy; Yet seldom is our bliss unmix'd with some alloy.

It should be so—there is enough of bliss, To make the hours of life glide swiftly on, Yet sadness dims the brightest cup—and this Recalls the heart from trusting what must soon Forever vanish from our grasp, when we Are call'd from things of time to dread eternity.