By The Side Of The Grave Some Years After

LONG time his pulse hath ceased to beat
But benefits, his gift, we trace–
Expressed in every eye we meet
Round this dear Vale, his native place. 

To stately Hall and Cottage rude
Flowed from his life what still they hold,
Light pleasures, every day, renewed;
And blessings half a century old.

Oh true of heart, of spirit gay,
Thy faults, where not already gone
From memory, prolong their stay
For charity’s sweet sake alone.

Such solace find we for our loss;
And what beyond this thought we crave 
Comes in the promise from the Cross,
Shining upon thy happy grave. 

 

– William Wordsworth

To a Sexton

Let thy wheel-barrow alone—
Wherefore, Sexton, piling still
In thy bone-house bone on bone?
‘Tis already like a hill In a field of battle made,
Where three thousand skulls are laid;
These died in peace each with the other,
— Father, sister, friend, and brother.

Mark the spot to which I point!
From this platform, eight feet square,
Take not even a finger-joint:
Andrew’s whole fire-side is there.
Here, alone, before thine eyes,
Simon’s sickly daughter lies,
From weakness now, and pain defended,
Whom he twenty winters tended.

Look but at the gardener’s pride—
How he glories, when he sees Roses, lilies, side by side,
Violets in families!
By the heart of Man, his tears,
By his hopes and by his fears,
Thou, too heedless, art the Warden Of a far superior garden

Thus then, each to other dear,
Let them all in quiet lie, Andrew there, and Susan here,
Neighbours in mortality.
And, should I live through sun and rain
Seven widowed years without my Jane,
O Sexton, do not then remove her,
Let one grave hold the Loved and Lover!