At the Goal

I journeyed many a weary mile,
     And when the day was almost past, 
Beside a cottage-gate I stood 
     And said, "The goal at last!"

Bright eyes will flash with brighter beam,
     A voice of music sweeter be" 
(So my thought shaped itself in words) 
     "To-night, because of me."

Up the smooth walk I passed, and heard 
     The faint breeze in the maples stir,
And the birds singing; then I stooped 
     To pluck a rose for her.

The door swung open, and a face
     Beamed welcome; not the face I sought,
But sweet and kind withal, yet grave 
     With sorrow or with thought;

A face beloved — yet, in its lines, 
     As it came nearer and more near
A sad, pathetic, tender look 
     That filled my soul with fear.

With sudden impulse — “Evelyn —
     Some ill to her? — speak quick!" I said;
One word, sobbed out from quivering lips, 
     Came like a death-shot .... "Dead!"

Sad monosyllable! .... a breath
     But half-articulate, and heard 
By the heart rather than the ear —
     What power was in that word!

A power to curdle the warm blood
     And press like ice the throbbing brain,
And send through every fluttering pulse 
     The fiery darts of pain!

Mute, motionless, with parted lips, 
     And eyes that stared on vacancy,
I stood — and felt the ebbing tide 
     That bore all life from me.

But soon a hand was laid on mine 
     With O, such pity in its press,
It seemed to win my spirit back 
     From utter desertness:

So, yielding half unconsciously
     To its soft guidance, I was led 
To the dim chamber where she lay — 
     My beautiful .... my dead!

Pale flowers grew paler in the hands 
     So meekly folded o'er her breast.
And all sweet thoughts that stirred her heart 
     Were, with that heart, at rest.

The soft light of her loving eyes
     Had faded in a drear eclipse, 
And silence hushed for evermore
     The music of her lips.

O, very fair beneath her hair,
     Seen through its cloud of clustering gold, 
Her forehead, like a marble saint's,
     Gleamed beautiful and cold!

Yet over all there lingered still
     Some traces of a heavenly light — 
The gleam, perchance, of angel-wing
     Flung backward from their flight.

As with the sinless soul they cleft 
     Their luminous pathway to the skies
While angel-voices filled the air 
     With songs of Paradise!

But our dull ears are slow to hear 
     Aught save the rustle of the pall,
As through our tears we see decay 
     Steal darkly over all;

And visions of the sunless grave,
     With the sad change that there is wrought,
Taunt us with our mortality, 
     And wed to dust our thought.

We think not how that dust shall rise 
     To star the sodden grave with flowers.
Whose grace shall gladden other eyes, 
     As hers hath gladdened ours.

We think not with what loving care 
     Nature preserves her mystic clews,
And in a thousand glorious forms 
     Her perished life renews.

We think not in our selfish woe,
     How, freed from every mortal taint,
She lives, whom we bewail as dead, 
     Still ours — though crowned a saint !

Not lost to us, nor lost to love — 
     A living, conscious, sentient soul,
Before us passed within the veil, 
     And earlier at the goal.

Dear God! if our wild sobs prevail 
     To drown thy loving voice awhile,
If through their tears, our eyes catch not 
     The sunlight of thy smile —

Forgive our atheist grief! and "Peace!” 
     Say, softly, to our passions' strife ;
Say, gently, " Wrong not death! 'tis but 
     The vestibule of Life!"