The Bier-Path.
I’ll lead thee to my favourite ground within the valley nigh,1
Where a narrow rushing river foameth ever wildly by—2
O’erhung with rugged rocks which glance from out a leafy screen—3
Their gray and sombre sides festooned with canopies of green.4
Around the entrance-porch are twining no bright summer flowers,5
It leadeth to no garden trim or rose-encircled bowers ;6
But welcome is the solemn shade from garish light of day,7
Where gloomy yews of age unknown survive amid decay.8
A pathway windeth from the porch—a broad and decent way—9
Adown it in the evening-time young footsteps often stray.10
It hath no rustic resting-seat, no fragrance round it shed :11
It windeth through the lone churchyard—the bier-path of the
dead !12
dead !12
No nightingales frequent the spot, but ofttimes may be heard13
The robin’s note in cadence sad—the melancholy bird !14
It hoppeth lightly o’er the sod, disturbs no grassy bed :15
But soft and sweetly singeth still a requiem for the dead !16
Ah ! hallowed is that old bier-porch, since when, in mute despair,17
I knelt beside a dismal load the bearers rested there !18
That bier-path is the dearest path in all the world to me—19
For it alone, my lost beloved, can bring me near to thee !20
May I be borne beneath that porch when journeying to the home21
From whence this weary, wasted form, shall never thenceforth
roam !22
roam !22
May I be borne along that path—retracing if no more—23
My wanderings all ended here, and all my sorrows o’er !24