THE

LOVED AND THE LOST.

I.

Dormientes.

BY WILLIAM ROSS WALLACE.

Here are the houses of the Dead. Here Youth
And Age and Manhood, stricken in his strength,
Hold solemn state and awful silence keep,
While Earth goes murmuring in her ancient path,
And troubled Ocean tosses to and fro
Upon his mountainous bed impatiently ·
And many stars make worship musical
In yon dim-aisled Abyss; and over all
The Lord of Life in meditation sits
Beneath the large white dome of Immortality.

Made quiet by the awe, I pause and think Among these winding walks, lined with the frequent tombs ;

For it is very wonderful.-Afar

The populous City lifts its tall bright spires,
And snowy sails are glancing on the bay,
As if in merriment-but here all sleep.

They sleep, these calm pale people of the Past
Spring plants her rosy feet on their dim homes-
They sleep!-Sweet Summer comes and calls, and

calls

With all her passionate poetry of flowers,
Wed to the music of the soft south wind-
They sleep!-The lonely Autumn sits and sobs
Between the cold white tombs, as if her heart
Would break-they sleep!-Wild Winter comes
and chants

Majestical the mournful Sagas, learned

Far in the melancholy North, where God
Walks forth alone upon the desolate seas-

They slumber still. Sleep on, O passionless Dead!
Ye make our world sublime: ye have a power
And majesty the living never hold.

Here Avarice shall forget his silver den;
Here Lust his beautiful victim, and hot Hate
His crouching foe. Ambition here shall lean
Against Death's shaft, veiling the stern bright eye
That, over bold, would take the height of gods,
And know Fame's nothingness. The Sire shall come
The matron and the child, through many years
To this fair spot, whether the sombre hearse
Moves slowly through the winding walks, or Death
For a brief moment pauses: all shall come

To feel the touching eloquence of graves

And therefore it was well for us to clothe
The place with beauty. No dark terror here
Shall chill the generous tropic of the Soul,
But Poetry and, her starry comrade, Art
Shall make the sacred country of the Dead
Magnificent. The fragrant flowers shall smile
Over the calm green graves; the trees shall shake
Their soul-like cadences upon the tombs;
Each dark-blue lake, set in a paradise
Of wood, shall be a mirror to the moon,
What time she looks from her imperial tent
In long delight at all below; the sea

Shall lift some stately dirge he loves to breathe
Over dead nations, while calm sculptures stand
On every hill, and look like spirits there,
Drinking the harmony.

And it is well!

Why should a darkness scowl on any spot
Where man grasps Immortality? Light, light,
And art, and poetry, and eloquence,

And all that we call glorious are its dower.

O ye whose mouldering frames were brought and
placed

By pious hands within these flowery slopes
And gentle hills, where are ye dwelling now?-
For man is more than element. The soul
Lives in the body, as the sunbeam lives
In trees or flowers that were but clay without.
Then where are ye, lost sunbeams of the Mind?

Are ye where great Orion towers and holds
Eternity on his stupendous front?

Or where pale Neptune in the distant space
Shows us how far in His creative mood,
With pomp of silence and concentred brows,
The Almighty walked? Or haply ye have gone
Where other matter roundeth into shapes

Of bright beatitude: or do ye know

Aught of dull space or time, and their dark load Of aching weariness?

They answer not:

But HE whose love created them of old,
To cheer his solitary realm and reign,
With love will still remember them.