A grave I know Where earthly show Is not--a mound Whose gentle round Sustains the load Of a fresh sod. Its shape is rude, And weeds intrude Their yellow flowers-- In gayer bowers Unknown. The grass, A tufted mass, Is rank and strong, Unsmoothed and long. No rosebud there Embalms the air; No lily chaste Adorns the waste, Nor daisy's head Bedecks the bed. No myrtles wave Above that grave; Nor heather-bell Is there to tell Of gentle friend Who sought to lend A sweeter sleep To him who deep Beneath the ground Repose has found. No stone of woe Is there to show The name, or tell How passing well He loved his God, And how he trod The humble road That leads through sorrow To a bright morrow Unknown in life, And far from strife, He lived:--and though The magic flow Of genius played Around his head, And he could weave "The song at eve," And touch the heart, With gentlest art; Or care beguile, And draw the smile Of peace from those Who wept their woes Yet when the love Of Christ above To guilty men Was shown him--then He left the joys Of worldly noise, And humbly laid His drooping head Upon the cross; And thought the loss Of all that earth Contained--of mirth, Of loves, and fame, And pleasures' name-- No sacrifice To win the prize, Which Christ secured, When He endured For us the load-- The wrath of God! With many a tear, And many a fear, With many a sigh And heart-wrung cry Of timid faith, He sought the breath: But which can give The power to live-- Whose word alone Can melt the stone, Bid tumult cease, And all be peace! He sought not now To wreathe his brow With laurel bough. He sought no more To gather store Of earthly lore, Nor vainly strove To share the love Of heaven above, With aught below That earth can show The smile forsook His cheek--his look Was cold and sad; And even the glad Return of morn, When the ripe corn Waves o'er the plains, And simple swains With joy prepare The toil to share Of harvest, brought No lively thought To him.
And spring adorns The sunny morns With opening flowers; And beauty showers O'er lawn and mead; Its virgin head The snowdrop steeps In dew, and peeps The crocus forth, Nor dreads the north. But even the spring No smile can bring To him, whose eye Sought in the sky For brighter scenes, Where intervenes No darkening cloud Of sin to shroud The gazer's view. Thus sadly flew The merry spring; And gaily sing The birds their loves In summer groves. But not for him Their notes they trim. His ear is cold-- His tale is told. Above his grave The grass may wave--
The crowd pass by Without a sigh Above the spot. They knew him not-- They could not know; And even though, Why should they shed Above the dead Who slumbers here A single tear? I cannot weep, Though in my sleep I sometimes clasp With love's fond grasp His gentle hand, And see him stand Beside my bed, And lean his head Upon my breast, And bid me rest Nor night nor day Till I can say That I have found The holy ground In which there lies The Pearl of Price-- Till all the ties The soul that bind, And all the lies The soul that blind, Be ...
Nothing could more fully prove the deep impression which the event made than these verses. But it was not a transient regret, nor was it the "sorrow of the world." He was in his eighteenth year when his brother died; and if this was not the year of his new birth, at least it was the year when the first streaks of dawn appeared in his soul. From that day forward his friends observed a change. His poetry was pervaded with serious thought, and all his pursuits began to be followed out in another spirit. He engaged in the labors of a Sabbath school, and began to seek God to his soul, in the diligent reading of the word, and attendance on a faithful ministry.
How important this period of his life appeared in his own view, may be gathered from his allusions to it in later days. A year after, he writes in his diary: "On this morning last year came the first overwhelming blow to my worldliness; how blessed to me, Thou, O God, only knowest, who hast made it so." Every year he marked this day as one to be remembered, and occasionally its recollections seem to have come in like a flood. In a letter to a friend (8th July 1842), upon a matter entirely local, he concludes by a postscript: "This day eleven years ago, my holy brother David entered into his rest, aged 26." And on that same day, writing a note to one of his flock in Dundee (who had asked him to furnish a preface to a work printed 1740, _Letters on Spiritual Subjects_), he commends the book, and adds: "Pray for me, that I may be made holier and wiser--less like myself, and more like my heavenly Master; that I may not regard my life, if so be I may finish my course with joy. This day eleven years ago, I lost my loved and loving brother, and began to seek a Brother who cannot die."