December 31, 1889
This day within the Abbey, where of oldOur kings are sepulchred, a king of song,Browning, among his peers is laid to rest,Borne to the tomb by loving hearts, and stoledIn shining raiment that his genius wove.No lingering illness his, with swift surpriseDeath flashed the Light Eternal in his eyesAnd blinded Life. In this way he was blest.Perhaps in some far star he now has metHis rose of love, his ne'er forgotten wife,In life past death the passion of his life,And they again as once in spirit blentLook thro' the veil this day and hear the fretOf many feet, the swelling music spentOn mourning listeners. With voices low,Chanting their hymn, the boys sing as they go,"He giveth his Beloved sleep." What tho'The perishable forms these two once woreIn different lands lie sundered by the sea;Their spirits smile at this our fond regret:"What matters anything since we have met,"They radiant sing. Together! oh, what moreCan love, long parted, from the Eterrnal crave?
And if there be no meeting past the grave,If all is darkness, silence, yet 'tis rest.Be not afraid, ye waiting hearts that weep,For God still giveth his belovèd sleep,And if an endless sleep he wills, -- so best.
