Page:Oxford Book of English Verse 1250-1900.djvu/745

Than those deep-warbled anthems, high and low,
Low as the grave, high as th' Eternal Throne,
          Guiding through light and gloom
          Our mourning fancies wild,

Till gently, like soft golden clouds at eve
Around the western twilight, all subside
          Into a placid faith,
          That even with beaming eye

Counts thy sad honours, coffin, bier, and pall;
So many relics of a frail love lost,
          So many tokens dear
          Of endless love begun.

Listen! it is no dream: th' Apostles' trump
Gives earnest of th' Archangel's;—calmly now,
          Our hearts yet beating high
          To that victorious lay

(Most like a warrior's, to the martial dirge
Of a true comrade), in the grave we trust
          Our treasure for awhile:
          And if a tear steal down,

If human anguish o'er the shaded brow
Pass shuddering, when the handful of pure earth
          Touches the coffin-lid;
          If at our brother's name,

Once and again the thought, 'for ever gone,'
Come o'er us like a cloud; yet, gentle spright,
          Thou turnest not away,
          Thou know'st us calm at heart.