But he who loved her too well to dread

The sweet, the stately, the beautiful dead,

He lit his lamp, and took the key,

And turned it!—Alone again—he and she!

He and she; but she would not speak,

Though he kissed, in the old place, the quiet cheek;

He and she; yet she would not smile,

Though he called her the name that was fondest erewhile.

He and she; and she did not move

To any one passionate whisper of love!

Then he said, "Cold lips! and breast without breath!
Is there no voice?—no language of death

"Dumb to the ear and still to the sense, But to heart and to soul distinct,—intense?

"See, now, I listen with soul, not ear,— What was the secret of dying, Dear?

"Was it the infinite wonder of all
That you ever could let life's flower fall?

"Or was it a greater marvel to feel

The perfect calm o'er the agony steal?

"Was the miracle greatest to find how deep, Beyond all dreams, sank downward that sleep?

"Did life roll backward its record, Dear,
And show, as they say it does, past things clear?

"And was it the innermost heart of the bliss To find out so what a wisdom love is?

"Oh, perfect Dead! Oh, Dead most dear, I hold the breath of my soul to hear;

"I listen as deep as to horrible hell,
As high as to heaven!—and you do not tell!

"There must be pleasures in dying, Sweet, To make you so placid from head to feet!

"I would tell you, Darling, if I were dead,
And 'twere your hot tears upon my brow shed.

"I would say, though the angel of death had laid His sword on my lips to keep it unsaid.

"You should not ask, vainly, with streaming eyes, Which in Death's touch was the chiefest surprise;

"The very strangest and suddenest thing Of all the surprises that dying must bring."

Ah! foolish world! Oh! most kind Dead!
Though he told me, who will believe it was said?

Who will believe that he heard her say,
With the soft rich voice, in the dear old way:-

"The utmost wonder is this,-I hear,

And see you, and love you, and kiss you, Dear;

"I can speak, now you listen with soul alone; your soul could see, it would all be shown

If

"What a strange delicious amazement is Death, To be without body and breathe without breath.

"I should laugh for joy if you did not cry; Oh, listen! Love lasts!-Love never will die.

"I am only your Angel, who was your Bride; And I know, that though dead, I have never died." Edwin Arnold [1832-1904]

AFTER DEATH IN ARABIA

HE who died at Azan sends
This to comfort all his friends:

Faithful friends! It lies, I know,
Pale and white and cold as snow:
And ye say, "Abdallah's dead!”
Weeping at the feet and head.
I can see your falling tears,

I can hear your sighs and prayers;
Yet I smile and whisper this:
"I am not the thing you kiss;
Cease your tears, and let it lie;
It was mine-it is not I."

Sweet friends! what the women lave
For its last bed of the grave,

Is a tent which I am quitting,
Is a garment no more fitting,
Is a cage from which, at last,
Like a hawk my soul hath passed.
Love the inmate, not the room,-

The wearer, not the garb;—the plume
Of the falcon, not the bars

That kept him from these splendid stars!

Loving friends! be wise, and dry
Straightway every weeping eye.
What ye lift upon the bier
Is not worth a wistful tear.
'Tis an empty sea-shell,-one
Out of which the pearl is gone.
The shell is broken, it lies there;
The pearl, the all, the soul, is here.
'Tis an earthen jar, whose lid
Allah sealed, the while it hid

That treasure of his treasury,

A mind that loved him: let it lie!
Let the shard be earth's once more,
Since the gold shines in his store!

Allah glorious! Allah good!

Now Thy world is understood;
Now the long, long wonder ends!
Yet ye weep, my erring friends,
While the man whom ye call dead,
In unspoken bliss, instead,

Lives and loves you; lost, 'tis true,
By such light as shines for you;
But in light ye cannot see
Of unfulfilled felicity,—

In enlarging paradise,

Lives a life that never dies.

Farewell, friends! yet not farewell;—
Where I am, ye, too, shall dwell.
I am gone before your face,
A moment's time, a little space.
When ye come where I have stepped,
Ye will wonder why ye wept;

Ye will know, by wise love taught,
That here is all, and there is naught.
Weep awhile, if ye are fain,-
Sunshine still must follow rain;
Only not at death,-for death,
Now I know, is that first breath

Which our souls draw when we enter

Life, which is of all life center.

Be

ye certain all seems love,

Viewed from Allah's throne above;

Be ye stout of heart, and come

Bravely onward to your home!

La Allah illa Allah! yea!

Thou love divine! Thou Love alway!

He that died at Azan gave

This to those who made his grave.

Edwin Arnold [1832-1904]

SENTINEL SONGS

TO THE EARL OF WARWICK, ON THE
DEATH OF MR. ADDISON

[1672-1719]

IF, dumb too long, the drooping Muse hath stayed, And left her debt to Addison unpaid,

Blame not her silence, Warwick, but bemoan,
And judge, O, judge my bosom by your own.
What mourner ever felt poetic fires?
Slow comes the verse that real woe inspires:
Grief unaffected suits but ill with art,
Or flowing numbers with a bleeding heart.
Can I forget the dismal night that gave
My soul's best part forever to the grave?
How silent did his old companions tread,
By midnight lamps, the mansions of the dead,
Through breathing statues, then unheeded things,
Through rows of warriors and through walks of kings!
What awe did the slow, solemn knell inspire;
The pealing organ, and the pausing choir;
The duties by the lawn-robed prelate paid;
And the last words, that dust to dust conveyed!
While speechless o'er thy closing grave we bend,
Accept these tears, thou dear, departed friend.
O, gone forever! take this long adieu;
And sleep in peace next thy loved Montague.
To strew fresh laurels let the task be mine,
A frequent pilgrim at thy sacred shrine;
Mine with true sighs thy absence to bemoan,
And grave with faithful epitaphs thy stone.
If e'er from me thy loved memorial part,
May shame afflict this alienated heart;
Of thee forgetful, if I form a song,

My lyre be broken, and untuned my tongue,