"I left thee last, a child at heart,
       &nbspA woman scarce in years.
I come to thee, a solemn corpse
       &nbspWhich neither feels nor fears.
I have no breath to use in sighs;
They laid the dead-weights on mine eyes
       &nbspTo seal them safe from tears.


"Look on me with thine own calm look:
       &nbspI meet it calm as thou.
No look of thine can change this smile,
       &nbspOr break thy sinful vow:
I tell thee that my poor scorned heart
       &nbspIs of thine earth—thine earth, a part:


It cannot vex thee now.
       &nbsp"But out, alas! these words are writ
By a living, loving one,
       &nbspAdown whose cheeks, the proofs of life
The warm quick tears do run:
Ah, let the unloving corpse control
       &nbspThy scorn back from the loving soul

Whose place of rest is won.
       &nbsp"I have prayed for thee with bursting sob
When passion's course was free;
       &nbspI have prayed for thee with silent lips,
In the anguish none could see:
They whispered oft, 'She sleepeth soft'—
       &nbspBut I only prayed for thee.


"Go to! I pray for thee no more:
       &nbspThe corpse's tongue is still,
Its folded fingers point to heaven,
       &nbspBut point there stiff and chill:
No farther wrong, no farther woe
Hath license from the sin below
       &nbspIts tranquil heart to thrill.


"I charge thee, by the living's prayer,
       &nbspAnd the dead's silentness,
To wring from out thy soul a cry
       &nbspWhich God shall hear and bless!
Lest Heaven's own palm droop in my hand,
And pale among the saints I stand,
       &nbspA saint companionless."

V.
Bow lower down before the throne,
       &nbspTriumphant Rosalind!
He boweth on thy corpse his face,
       &nbspAnd weepeth as the blind:
'Twas a dread sight to see them so,
For the senseless corpse rocked to and fro
       &nbspWith the wail of his living mind.


VI.
But dreader sight, could such be seen,
       &nbspHis inward mind did lie,
Whose long-subjected humanness
       &nbspGave out its lion-cry,
And fiercely rent its tenement
In a mortal agony.


VII.
I tell you, friends, had you heard his wail,
       &nbsp'Twould haunt you in court and mart,
And in merry feast until you set
       &nbspYour cup down to depart—
That weeping wild of a reckless child
       &nbspFrom a proud man's broken heart.

VIII.
O broken heart, O broken vow,
       &nbspThat wore so proud a feature!
God, grasping as a thunderbolt
       &nbspThe man's rejected nature,
Smote him therewith i' the presence high
Of his so worshipped earth and sky
That looked on all indifferently—
       &nbspA wailing human creature.


IX.
A human creature found too weak
       &nbspTo bear his human pain—
(May Heaven's dear grace have spoken peace
       &nbspTo his dying heart and brain!)
For when they came at dawn of day
To lift the lady's corpse away,
       &nbspHer bier was holding twain.


X.
They dug beneath the kirkyard grass,
       &nbspFor born one dwelling deep;
To which, when years had mossed the stone,
Sir Roland brought his little son
       &nbspTo watch the funeral heap:
And when the happy boy would rather
       &nbspTurn upward his blithe eyes to see
       &nbspThe wood-doves nodding from the tree,
"Nay, boy, look downward," said his father,
"Upon this human dust asleep.
And hold it in thy constant ken
That God's own unity compresses
       &nbsp(One into one) the human many,
And that his everlastingness is
       &nbspThe bond which is not loosed by any:
That thou and I this law must keep,
       &nbspIf not in love, in sorrow then,—
       &nbspThough smiling not like other men,
Still, like them we must weep."