Henry Alford

On Seeing The Following Epitaph At Selworthy, West Somerset

This grave's a cradle where an infant lies, Rockt fast asleepe with Death's sad lullabyes. Sad lullabyes, dear child--in this sweet spot, The chime of hourly clock,--the mountain stream That ever sends up to thy resting place Its gush of many voices--and the crow Of matin cock, faint it may be but shrill, From elm embosomed farms along the dells,-- These are thy lullabyes--who would not sleep Thus husht and sung to with all sweetest sounds? And I can stand beside thy cradle, child, And see yon belt of clouds in silent pomp Midway the mountain passing slowly on, Whose beaconed top peers over on the vale;-- And upward narrowing in thick--timbered dells Dark solemn coombs, with wooded buttresses Propping his mighty weight--each with its stream, Now leaping sportfully from crag to crag, Now smoothed in clear black pools--then in the vales Through lanes of bowering foliage glittering on, By cots and farms and peaceful villages, And meadows brightest green. Who would not sleep Rockt in so fair a cradle? But that word-- That one word--`death,' comes over my sick brain Wrapping my vision in a sudden swoon; Blotting the gorgeous pomp of sun and shade, Mountain, and wooded cliff, and sparkling stream, With a thick dazzling darkness. --Who art thou Under this hillock on the mountain side? I love the like of thee with a deep love, And therefore called thee dear--thee who art now A handful of dull earth. No lullabyes Hearest thou now, be they or sweet or sad; No revelry of streams, no pomp of clouds, Not the blue top of mountain--nor the woods Which clothe the steeps, have any joy for thee. Go to then--tell me not of balmiest rest In fairest cradle--for I never felt One half so keenly as I feel it now, That not the promise of the sweetest sleep Can make me smile on Death. Yet I do smile, Because we shall not sleep.