| |
| ALAS! that breathing Vanity should go | |
| Where Pride is buried,—like its very ghost, | |
| Uprisen from the naked bones below, | |
| In novel flesh, clad in the silent boast | |
| Of gaudy silk that flutters to and fro, | 5 |
| Shedding its chilling superstition most | |
| On young and ignorant natures, as it wont | |
| To haunt the peaceful churchyard of Bedfont! | |
| |
| Each Sabbath morning, at the hour of prayer, | |
| Behold two maidens, up the quiet green | 10 |
| Shining, far distant, in the summer air | |
| That flaunts their dewy robes and breathes between | |
| Their downy plumes,—sailing as if they were | |
| Two far-off ships,—until they brush between | |
| The churchyard’s humble walls, and watch and wait | 15 |
| On either side of the wide opened gate. | |
| |
| And there they stand—with haughty necks before | |
| God’s holy house, that points towards the skies— | |
| Frowning reluctant duty from the poor, | |
| And tempting homage from unthoughtful eyes: | 20 |
| And Youth looks lingering from the temple door, | |
| Breathing its wishes in unfruitful sighs, | |
| With pouting lips,—forgetful of the grace, | |
| Of health, and smiles, on the heart-conscious face;— | |
| |
| Because that Wealth, which has no bliss beside, | 25 |
| May wear the happiness of rich attire; | |
| And those two sisters, in their silly pride, | |
| May change the soul’s warm glances for the fire | |
| Of lifeless diamonds;—and for health denied,— | |
| With art, that blushes at itself, inspire | 30 |
| Their languid cheeks,—and flourish in a glory | |
| That has no life in life, nor after-story. | |
| |
| The aged priest goes shaking his gray hair | |
| In meekest censuring, and turns his eye | |
| Earthward in grief, and heavenward in prayer, | 35 |
| And sighs, and clasps his hands, and passes by. | |
| Good-hearted man! what sullen soul would wear | |
| Thy sorrow for a garb, and constantly | |
| Put on thy censure, that might win the praise | |
| Of one so gray in goodness and in days? | 40 |
| |
| Also the solemn clerk partakes the shame | |
| Of this ungodly shine of human pride, | |
| And sadly blends his reverence and blame | |
| In one grave bow, and passes with a stride | |
| Impatient:—many a red-hooded dame | 45 |
| Turns her pained head, but not her glance, aside | |
| From wanton dress, and marvels o’er again, | |
| That heaven hath no wet judgments for the vain. * * * * * | |
| The aged priest goes on each Sabbath morn, | |
| But shakes not sorrow under his gray hair; | 50 |
| The solemn clerk goes lavendered and shorn, | |
| Nor stoops his back to the ungodly pair;— | |
| And ancient lips that puckered up in scorn, | |
| Go smoothly breathing to the house of prayer; | |
| And in the garden-plot, from day to day, | 55 |
| The lily blooms its long white life away. | |
| |
| And where two haughty maidens used to be, | |
| In pride of plume, where plumy Death had trod, | |
| Trailing their gorgeous velvets wantonly, | |
| Most unmeet pall, over the holy sod;— | 60 |
| There, gentle stranger, thou may’st only see | |
| Two sombre Peacocks.—Age, with sapient nod | |
| Marking the spot, still tarries to declare | |
| How they once lived, and wherefore they are there. | |
| |
