Browning's Funeral

Henrietta Anne Huxley

This day within the Abbey, where of old
Our kings are sepulchred, a king of song,
Browning, among his peers is laid to rest,
Borne to the tomb by loving hearts, and stoled
In shining raiment that his genius wove.
No lingering illness his, with swift surprise
Death flashed the Light Eternal in his eyes
And blinded Life. In this way he was blest.
Perhaps in some far star he now has met
His rose of love, his ne'er forgotten wife,
In life past death the passion of his life,
And they again as once in spirit blent
Look thro' the veil this day and hear the fret
Of many feet, the swelling music spent
On 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 wore
In 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 more
Can 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 belov├Ęd sleep,
And if an endless sleep he wills, -- so best.

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