Epicedia Poem by Henry Alford

I.

Ye must not die--your cheek is red,
Ye have not lost your bloom;
We shall be loth when ye are dead
To lay ye in your tomb.

Ye must not die--your eyes are bright,
Your heart leaps merrily;
It's not for them that 'll die to night,
To look so brave to day.

Ye must not die--ye are not old,
Ye have never a hair that's gray;
Ye must not go into the dark and cold
In your best and shiniest day.

Ye must not die--the West wind 'll come,
For the winter's over and gone;
The swallows are flying back to their home,
And the spring is coming on.

II.

Refresh me with the bright blue violet,
And put the pale faint--scented primrose near,
For I am breathing yet:
Shed not one silly tear,
But when mine eyes are set
Scatter the fresh flowers thick upon my bier,
And let my early grave with morning dew be wet.

I have passed swiftly o'er the pleasant earth,
My life hath been the shadow of a dream;
The joyousness of birth
Did ever with me seem:
My spirit had no dearth,
But dwelt for ever by a full swift stream,
Lapt in a golden trance of never--failing mirth.

Touch me once more, my father, ere my hand
Have not an answer for thee;--kiss my cheek
Ere the blood fix and stand
Where flits the hectic streak;
Give me thy last command,
Before I lie all undisturbed and meek,
Wrapt in the snowy folds of funeral swathing--band.

III.

Slowly and softly let the music go,
As ye wind upwards to the gray church tower;
Check the shrill hautboy, let the pipe breathe low--
Tread lightly on the pathside daisy flower.
For she ye carry was a gentle bud,
Loved by the unsunned drops of silver dew;
Her voice was like the whisper of the wood
In prime of even, when the stars are few.
Lay her all gently in the flowerful mould,
Weep with her one brief hour; then turn away,--
Go to hope's prison,--and from out the cold
And solitary gratings many a day
Look forth: 'tis said the world is growing old,--
And streaks of orient light in Time's horizon play.

IV.

The cowslip standeth in the grass,
The primrose in the budding grove
Hath laid her fair pale breast
On the greensward to rest;
The vapours that cease not to rove
Over the blue sky, fleet and pass,
And ever o'er the golden sun
Their shadows run.

She is not in the kingcup mead,
Stooping to whisper to the flowers;
She is not in the wood
Nursing the primrose bud;
She doth not mark the blooming hours,
The joy and May she doth not heed;
Under the church wall in the shade
Her bed is made.

V.
Rise, said the Master, come unto the feast:--
She heard the call, and rose with willing feet:
But thinking it not otherwise than meet
For such a bidding to put on her best,
She is gone from us for a few short hours
Into her bridal closet, there to wait
For the unfolding of the palace gate
That gives her entrance to the blissful bowers.
We have not seen her yet; though we have been
Full often to her chamber door, and oft
Have listened underneath the postern green,
And laid fresh flowers, and whispered short and soft:
But she hath made no answer, and the day
From the clear West is fading fast away.

VI.

The turf is green above thee,
Thou'rt wedded to thy rest,
With the cold damp earth about thee,
And thine arms across thy breast:
The light hath waned around thee,
Wherein thy spirit breathed;
And thou hast faded from the flowers
With which thy brow was wreathed.

Oh! thou wert mild and beautiful,
A sunbeam in life's showers;
Thou wert too mild and beautiful
For this dull earth of ours:
So they have taken thee away--
Fair spirits like thine own,
And thou art gone to be with them
In sight of God's high throne.

VII.

Not the springing up of day,
Nor the bright hues of the May,
Can give me joy now thou art gone;
Not the singing of the bird
In the purple evening heard;
All bright things that seemed my own
From thy light were shed,
And with thee have fled.

When I had thee here with me,
Every thing was blest by thee,
Thou hadst breathed on all around;
But thou hast past away
From the night and day;
Thy voice doth never sound;
Thou hast taken of my heart
Far the better part.