Thirty Poems/The Life that Is
THE LIFE THAT IS.
Thou, who so long hast pressed the couch of pain, Oh welcome, welcome back to life's free breath—To life's free breath and day's sweet light again, From the chill shadows of the gate of death.
For thou hadst reached the twilight bound between The world of spirits and this grosser sphere;Dimly by thee the things of earth wore seen, And faintly fell carth's voices on thine ear.
And now, how gladly we behold, at last, The wonted smile returning to thy brow;The very wind's low whisper, breathing past, In the light leaves, is music to thee now.
Thou wert not weary of thy lot; the earth Was ever good and pleasant in thy sight;Still clung thy loves about the household hearth, And sweet was every day's returning light.
Then welcome back to all thou would'st not leave, To this grand march of seasons, days and hours;The glory of the morn, the glow of eve, The beauty of the streams, and stars, and flowers;
To eyes on which thine own delight to rest; To voices which it is thy joy to hear; To the kind toils that ever pleased thee best, The willing tasks of love, that made life dear.
Welcome to grasp of friendly hands; to prayers Offered where crowds in reverent worship come,Or softly breathed amid the tender cares And loving inmates of thy quiet home.
Thou bring'st no tidings of the better land, Even from its verge; the mysteries opened thereAre what the faithful heart may understand In its still depths, yet words may not declare.
And well I deem, that, from the brighter side Of life's dim border, some o'erflowing raysStreamed from the inner glory, shall abide Upon thy spirit through the coming days.
Twice wert thou given me; once in thy fair prime, Fresh from the fields of youth, when first we met,And all the blossoms of that hopeful time Clustered and glowed where'er thy steps were set.
And now, in thy ripe autumn, once again Given back to forvent prayers and yearnings strong,From the drear realm of sickness and of pain, When we had watched, and feared, and trembled long.
Now may we keep thee from the balmy air And radiant walks of heaven a little space,Where He, who went before thee to prepare For His meek followers, shall assign thy place.
Castellamare, May, 1858.