To the Memory of J. O. Rockwell

TO THE MEMORY OF J. O. ROCKWELL - by John Greenleaf Rockwell

The turf is smooth above him! and this rain 
Will moisten the rent roots, and summon back 
The perishing life of its green-bladed grass, 
And the crush'd flower will lift its head again 
Smilingly unto Heaven, as if it kept 
No vigil with the dead.

                          Well—it is meet
That the green grass should tremble, and the flowers 
Blow wild about his resting-place. His mind 
Was in itself a flower, but half disclosed— 
A bud of blessed promise, which the storm 
Visited rudely, and the passer by
Smote down in wantonness.— But we may trust 
That it hath found a dwelling, where the sun 
Of a more holy clime will visit it, 
And the pure dews of mercy will descend, 
Through Heaven's own atmosphere, upon its head.

     His form is now before me, with no trace 
Of death in its fine lineaments, and there 
Is a faint crimson on his youthful cheek, 
And his free lip is softening with the smile 
Which in his eye is kindling. I can feel 
The parting pressure of his hand, and hear 
His last "God bless you!"—Strange—that he is there
Distinct before me like a breathing thing, 
Even when I know that he is with the dead, 
And that the damp earth hides him. I would not 
Think of him otherwise-his image lives 
Within my memory as he seem'd before 
The curse of blighted feeling, and the toil 
And fever of an uncongenial strife, had left 
Their traces on his aspect.

                          Peace to him!
He wrestled nobly with the weariness 
And trials of our being-smiling on, 
While poison mingled with his springs of life, 
And wearing a calm brow, while on his heart 
Anguish was resting like a hand of fire—
Until at last the agony of thought 
Grew insupportable, and madness came 
Darkly upon him,—and the sufferer died!

     Nor died he unlamented! To his grave 
The beautiful and gifted shall go up, 
And muse upon the sleeper. And young lips 
Shall murmur in the broken tones of grief—
His own sweet melodies—and if the ear 
Of the freed spirit heedeth aught beneath 
The brightness of its new inheritance, 
It may be joyful to the parted one 
To feel that Earth remembers him in love!
 

John Greenleaf Whittier, Poems by John G. Whittier. Philadelphia: Joseph Healy, 1838, p. 179-180. Internet Archive copy https://archive.org/details/poems00inwhit/mode/2up