Words for the Hour/S. P.
S. P.
Unclose, sad shrine, thy shrouded breast, Expectant to receive him;Give, ere the dust to dust return, All that thou hast to give him—
One hallowing rite, one parting prayer, Deep as the heart's pulsation;One word that points to whence shall come If ever, consolation.
One hour that holds the cherished dead For us, the ever dying;We, wrung by Nature's agony, And he, serenely lying.
Sound, wailing Anthem—lend thy voice To thoughts we cannot utter,Till, in the dim, mysterious void, The wings of angels flutter.
We've laid a garland on his bier Of fresh and fragrant blossom,Of flowers, like him, untimely plucked From Nature's wintry bosom.
Gather around him, faithful hearts, So fain from ill to shield him,Before yon reddening Sun departs, To Darkness ye must yield him.
And thou, for whose ecstatic grief No thought fit word can borrow;Rise up, beneath thy widowed garb, The royal robe of sorrow;
Move, followed close by tearful eyes, And sobbing benediction,To where th' inexorable gate Shuts him from our affliction.
Bear bravely, to the last farewell— This anguish too, is fleeting;The path, slow winding from his grave, Leads on, to happier meeting.
Life must resume its wonted task, Its care, unblest without him,—Thou wouldst not wake him? Let him lie With his stately youth about him.
He lies, enshrined in holy hope, Embalsamed in affection,In hope, in love, whose deathless pledge Is Nature's resurrection.