Andrew Macphail, comp. The Book of Sorrow. 1916.
Burial of the DeadJohn Keble (17921866)
I
Death’s interposing veil, and thou so pure,
Thy place in Paradise
Beyond where I could soar;
Spring like unbidden violets from the sod,
Where patiently thou tak’st
Thy sweet and sure repose.
Is full of cheering whispers like thine own;
While Memory, by thy grave,
Lives o’er thy funeral day;
Waiting their Saviour’s welcome at the gate.—
Sure with the words of Heaven
Thy spirit met us there,
The hallow’d porch, and entering in, beheld
The pageant of sad joy
So dear to Faith and Hope.
To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch’d
The sacred springs of grief
More tenderly and true,
Low as the grave, high as th’ Eternal Throne,
Guiding through light and gloom
Our mourning fancies wild,
Around the western twilight, all subside
Into a placid Faith,
That even with beaming eye
So many relics of a frail love lost,
So many tokens dear
Of endless love begun.
Gives earnest of th’ Archangel’s;—calmly now,
Our hearts yet beating high
To that victorious lay,
Of a true comrade, in the grave we trust
Our treasure for awhile:
And if a tear steal down,
Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth
Touches the coffin-lid;
If at our brother’s name,
Come o’er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,
Thou turnest not away,
Thou know’st us calm at heart.
Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o’er.
O cleanse us, ere we view
That countenance pure again,
As T
Be ready when we meet,
With Thy dear pardoning words.