The old churchyard is still as death,
A stranger passes to and fro
As if to church--he does not go--
The dead night does not draw a breath.
A lone sweet lady prays within.
The stranger passes by the door--
Will he not pray? Is he so poor
He has no prayer for his sin?
Is he so poor! His two strong hands
Are full and heavy, as with gold;
They clasp, as clasp two iron bands
About two bags with eager hold.
Will he not pause and enter in,
Put down his heavy load and rest,
Put off his garmenting of sin,
As some black burden from his breast?
Ah, me! the brave alone can pray.
The church-door is as cannon's mouth
To sinner North, or sinner South,
More dreaded than dread battle day.
Now two men pace. They pace apart,
And one with youth and truth is fair;
The fervid sun is in his heart,
The tawny South is in his hair.
Ay, two men pace, pace left and right--
The lone, sweet lady prays within--
Ay, two men pace: the silent night
Kneels down in prayer for some sin.
Lo! two men pace; and one is gray,
A blue-eyed man from snow-clad land,
With something heavy in each hand,--
With heavy feet, as feet of clay.
Ay, two men pace; and one is light
Of step, but still his brow is dark
His eyes are as a kindled spark
That burns beneath the brow of night!
And still they pace. The stars are red,
The tombs are white as frosted snow;
The silence is as if the dead
Did pace in couples, to and fro.