Whittier: (Dying). September Sixth and Seventh

BREATHLESS the mist of amethyst
That faints upon the sea.
The sun moves like a musing god ;
What sacred sight sees he ?

The golden-rod doth gravely nod
Unto the beckoning bay;
The aster watches for a sign.
What ails the happy day?

On its pale lip a finger-tip
The stern, white immortelle
Lays softly, like one murmuring:
“Hush! Ask not. It is well.”

Smile ye, or weep, ye cannot keep
The secret that ye hold ;
Deep-hearted Autumn that he loved !
The solemn word is told.

Wind of the north ! it has gone forth ;
Breath of the pines — he dies.
Ye had eternal kinship’s right
To kiss his closing eyes.

To us, who love as men may love,
Tender and loyal he ;
But Nature was his confidante,
Sole intimate was she.

We kneel afar, where thousands are ;
Gray light is on the grass ;
The tide is calling from the ebb ;
Lord, let the great soul pass.

Thou spirit! who in spirit and in truth
Didst worship utterly the unseen God ;
Thine age the blossom of a stainless youth,
Thy soul the star that swings above the sod.
No prayer to heaven ever lighter rose
Than thy pure life, escaped, ariseth now.
Thou hushest like a chord unto its close,
Thou ceasest as the Amen to a vow.

Sacred the passion-flower of thy fame.
To thee, obedient, “ Write,” the Angel saith.
Proudly life’s holiest hopes preserve thy name,
Thou poet of the people’s Christian faith.
Master of song ! Our idler verse shall burn
With shame before thee, Beauty dedicate!
Prophet of God ! We write upon thine urn,
Who, being Genius, held it consecrate:

To starving spirits, needing heavenly bread, —
The bond or free, with wrong or right at strife;
To quiet tears of mourners comforted
By music set unto eternal life.
These are thine ushers at the Silent Gate ;
To these appealing, thee we give in trust.
Glad heart! Forgive unto us, desolate,
The sob with which we leave thy sacred dust!