by T.M.F.
Originally published in Sharpe's London Magazine: A Journal (T.B. Sharpe) vol.6 #29 (Mar 1848).
At the hour of midnight dread
I stood 'neath the churchyard tree;
And I thought that the buried dead
Rose up and looked at me!
Grey and cold, like the tombstones old,
They rose by the moon's pale beam;
I did not shriek, or move or speak,—
It felt like a troubled dream.
With fear the dark trees shook—
Each flower bent down her head—
Trembled the silver brook
At the presence of the dead!
But, oh! 'twas strange, nor fear nor change,
Pass'd o'er the chancel wall,
And the old church tower repelled their power,
With its cross-crowned steeple tall.
The wailing, wailing wind
Sighed through the churchyard lone;
Hope and life it hath left behind,
So desolate its tone.
To and fro did the dead men go,
Mid the graves so still and calm,
And as they roved their white lips moved
And they muttered a hind of psalm.
With eager haste they came
They gathered round me there—
They called me by my name
They mocked my wild despair.
The rushing tread of the risen dead
Had a strange unearthly sound,
Like the ocean's roar on a distant shore,
Or an earthquake underground!
And the silence of the place they broke;—
Hark to the words that the dead men spoke!
Song of the Dead Men
"Famished, cold, and poor were we,
Beggars at thy closed door;
Life pass'd by us mournfully,
Thou didst treat us scornfully,
Thou art rich, and we were pour!
Days and years of agony
Have we passed so near to thee;
Yet not e'en one loving word
From those busy lips we heard
We have suffered from thy sin,
Now thy tortures must begin!"
Fearfully, oh! fearfully,
Did their accents die away:
Mournfully, ob! mournfully!
And my heart grew dark and chill.
But the dead men still did stay
With their faces cold and grey;
And they gathered round about
With their long lean arms stretched out,
Pointing at me mockingly;
And their soulless glassy eyes,
With a kind of cold surprise,
Staring—staring at me still!
Then a mother held her child
In that grave-yard's tainted air;
And she spoke in accents wild,
Feeling still her life's despair.
"Slumber did thy form enfold,
Sweetest dreams did soothe thy rest;
I was dying in the cold,
With my baby at my breast.
On the morning of that day
At thy door, O man, I lay;
Thou didst see my baby cling
To the breast that food denied;
Thou didst chide my murmuring,
When with the strength of death I cried.
Thou didst bid me to be gone,
Nor cumber thus thy entrance-stone:
And I crawled a little way,
Then I strove and strove to pray,
And as cold and night came on,
With my baby at my side
In mine agony I died!
When our spirits found release
Thou didst sleep in calmest peace
Now thine eyes will close in vain,
Peace thou ne'er canst know again;
We have suffered from thy sin,—
Now thy tortures must begin!"
Her voice, so terrible and shrill,
Died on the midnight breeze,—
The beatings of my heart stood still,—
Oh! fearful things were these!
Another phantom, dark and grim,
Rose on my sight by the moonbeam dim,
"On the gallows-tree I hung,
To and fro my body swung,
Mid the mockings of the crowd
And their shouts of triumph loud.
To and fro,—to and fro,—
Backwards,—forwards,—see it go
While my struggling frame did strive
Still to keep itself alive.
'Twas a fearful sight to see,
That death of ling'ring agony;
'Twas a dreadful death to die
Betwixt the mocking earth and sky!
In each panting, painful breath,
Shame, and fear, and dark despond,—
Horrible the present death,
More horrible the dread Beyond.
Does no memory of a prayer
Wrung from hanger and despair,
Useless prayer, that could not soften,
Prayer, by thee rejected often,
Sound upon thy guilty ear
Sound o' vengeance and of fear?
Oh! angel-moments that we lose!
Oh! miseries we blindly choose!
Oh! power of good to evil bent!
Oh! sin too dreadful to repent!
Oh! Heaven rejected and opprest,
Qh! hell in many a living breast!"
He was silent like the other.—
It was over—I had heard—
But that agony of silence
Was more dreadful than each word!
O silence pure! O solitude!
Can I no longer prove
The beauty of your presence
The calmness of your love?
Must the darkness of my spirit
O'ercloud the moonlight sky?
Have I looked my last on nature
With the child's delighted eye?
Then the phantoms gathered round me
To drag me to the grave;
The spell of the damned bound me—
God! is there none to save
The avenging earth did gape
To receive me in her womb,
And the demon-fingers shape
My nameless, shameful tomb:
Yet life beat strong within me,
I had no power to die;
A breathing man—a living soul—
Mid those cold graves to lie!
And there was silence full of speech,
And darkness wrought with fear,
And I knew that the dead men were there,
Though I could not see nor hear!
A sound like a church bell ringing
Its sweetest matin chime,
A sound like the free birds singing
Joy to that holy time:—
A light like the light of a young child's heart,
Or a saint's encircled brow;
O light! O sound! how dear thou art,—
Dearer than ever now!
The grisly phantoms faded,
My darkened soul was free,
The bright muon shone and the clouds were gone
As I stood 'neath the churchyard tree,
It was a child's beseeching prayer,—
O silver, silver tone!
For me those loving accents were;
For me—for me alone!
Ob! innocence, availing much!
Oh! childhood's grateful love!
One tender word, one kindly touch,
One cup of water held to such,
Of wondrous power may prove.
Pray for me still, thou little child!
With thy lips unstained by sin;
Pray for me, spirit undefiled,
For at thy pure and holy prayer
An angel's presence fills the air,
And hope springs up within.