One place alone had ceased to hold its prey; A form had pressed it and was there no more; The garments of the Grave beside it lay, Where once they wrapped Him on the rocky floor. He only with returning footsteps broke 45 The eternal calm wherewith the Tomb was bound; Among the sleeping Dead alone He woke, And blessed with outstretched hands the host around. Well is it that such blessing hovers here, To soothe each sad survivor of the throng 50 Who haunt the portals of the solemn sphere, And pour their woe the loaded air along. They to the verge have followed that they love, And on the insuperable threshold stand; With cherished names its speechless calm reprove, 55 And stretch in the abyss their ungrasped hand. But vainly there the mourners seek relief From silenced voice, and shapes, Decay has swept, Till Death himself shall medicine their grief, Closing their eyes by those o’er whom they wept. 60 All that have died, the Earth’s whole race, repose, Where Death collects his treasures, heap on heap; O’er each one’s busy day the nightshades close; Its Actors, Sufferers, Schools, Kings, Armies--sleep. ‘_V._’ CCCIV _MY PSALM._ I mourn no more my vanished years: Beneath a tender rain, An April rain of smiles and tears, My heart is young again. The west winds blow, and singing low, 5 I hear the glad streams run; The windows of my soul I throw Wide open to the sun. No longer forward, nor behind, I look in hope and fear: 10 But grateful, take the good I find, The best of now, and here. I plough no more a desert land For harvest, weed and tare; The manna dropping from God’s hand 15 Rebukes my painful care. I break my pilgrim staff, I lay Aside the toiling oar; The angel sought so far away I welcome at my door. 20 The airs of spring may never play Among the ripening corn, Nor freshness of the flowers of May Blow through the autumn morn; Yet shall the blue-eyed gentian look 25 Through fringèd lids to heaven, And the pale aster in the brook Shall see its image given; The woods shall wear their robes of praise, The south-wind softly sigh, 30 And sweet calm days in golden haze Melt down the amber sky. Not less shall manly deed and word Rebuke an age of wrong: The graven flowers that wreathe the sword 35 Make not the blade less strong.