From Unbelief To Belief.

Why come ye here to sigh that I,     Who with crossed wrists so peaceless lie     Before ye, am at rest, at rest!     For that the pistons of my blood     No more in this machinery thud?     And on these eyes, that once were blest     With magnetism of fire, are prest     Thin, damp, pale eyelids for a sheath,     Whereon the bony claw of Death     Hath set his coins of unseen lead,     Stamped with the image of his head?     Why come ye here to weep for one,     Who is forgotten when he's gone     From ye and burthened with this rest     Your God hath given him! unsought     Of any prayers, whiles yet he wrought, -     And with what sacrifices bought!     Low, sweet communion mouth to mouth     Of thoughts that dewed eternal drought     Of Life's bald barrenness, - a jest,     An irony hath grown confessed     When he's at rest! when he's at rest!     Why come ye, fools! - ye lie! ye lie!     Rashly! the grave, for such as I,     Hath naught that lies as near this rest     As your high Heaven lies near your Hell!     I see why now that it is well     That men but know the husk-like shell,     Which like a fruit the being kept,     That swinked and sported, woke and slept;     From which that stern essential stept,     That ichor-veined inhabitant     Who makes me all myself, in all     My moods the "I" original,     That holds one orbit like a star,     Distinct, to which a similar     There never was, and be there can't.     And as it is, it is the best     That Death hath my poor body dressed     In such fair semblance of a rest,     Which soothes the hearts of those distressed;     But, God! unto the dead the jest     Of this his rest, of this his rest!