I THOUGHT to meet no more, so dreary seem'd Death's interposing veil, and thou so pure, Thy place in Paradise Beyond where I could soar; Friend of this worthless heart! but happier thoughts Spring like unbidden violets from the sod, Where patiently thou tak'st Thy sweet and sure repose. The shadows fall more soothing: the soft air Is full of cheering whispers like thine own; While Memory, by thy grave, Lives o'er thy funeral day; The deep knell dying down, the mourners' pause, Waiting their Saviour's welcome at the gate.-- Sure with the words of Heaven Thy spirit met us there, And sought with us along th' accustom'd way The hallow'd porch, and entering in, beheld The pageant of sad joy So dear to Faith and Hope. O! hadst thou brought a strain from Paradise To cheer us, happy soul, thou hadst not touch'd The sacred springs of grief More tenderly and true, 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. One look, and we have seen our last of thee, Till we too sleep and our long sleep be o'er. O cleanse us, ere we view That countenance pure again, Thou, who canst change the heart, and raise the dead! As Thou art by to soothe our parting hour, Be ready when we meet, With Thy dear pardoning words. John Clare. 1793-1864 621. Written in Northampton County Asylum I AM! yet what I am who cares, or knows? My friends forsake me like a memory lost. I am the self-consumer of my woes; They rise and vanish, an oblivious host, Shadows of life, whose very soul is lost. And yet I am--I live--though I am toss'd Into the nothingness of scorn and noise, Into the living sea of waking dream, Where there is neither sense of life, nor joys, But the huge shipwreck of my own esteem And all that 's dear. Even those I loved the best Are strange--nay, they are stranger than the rest.