# Scenes and Hymns of Life, with Other Religious Poems/Easter-Day in a Mountain Church-Yard

EASTER-DAY
IN A MOUNTAIN CHURCH-YARD.
There is a wakening on the mighty hills, A kindling with the spirit of the morn! Bright gleams are scatter'd from the thousand rills, And a soft visionary hue is born  On the young foliage, worn By all the imbosom'd woods—a silvery green, Made up of spring and dew, harmoniously serene.
And lo! where floating through a glory, sings The lark, alone amidst a crystal sky! Lo! where the darkness of his buoyant wings, Against a soft and rosy cloud on high,  Trembles with melody!
While the far-echoing solitudes rejoice To the rich augh of music in that voice.
But purer light than of the early sun Is on you cast, O mountains of the earth! And for your dwellers nobler joy is won Than the sweet echoes of the skylark's mirth,  By this glad morning's birth! And gifts more precious by its breath are shed Than music on the breeze, dew on the violet's head.
Gifts for the soul, from whose illumined eye, O'er nature's face the colouring glory flows; Gifts from the fount of immortality, Which, fill'd with balm, unknown to human woes,  Lay hush'd in dark repose, Till thou, bright dayspring! mad'st its waves our own, By thine unsealing of the burial stone.
Sing, then, with all your choral strains, ye hills! And let a full victorious tone be given,
By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,  The radiant gate of Heaven Unfolded—and the stern, dark shadow cast By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past.
And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand, Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead, Time with a soft and reconciling hand The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread  O'er every narrow bed: But not by time, and not by nature sown Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.
Christ hath arisen! oh! not one cherish'd head Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillowed here Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)
A hope, upspringing clear From those majestic tidings of the morn, Which lit the living way to all of woman born.
Thou hast wept mournfully, O human love! E'en on this greensward; night hath heard thy cry, Heart-stricken one! thy precious dust above, Night, and the hills, which sent forth no reply  Unto thine agony! But He who wept like thee, thy Lord, thy guide, Christ hath arisen, O love! thy tears shall all be dried.
Dark must have been the gushing of those tears, Heavy the unsleeping phantom of the tomb On thine impassioned soul, in elder years When, burden'd with the mystery of its doom,  Mortality's thick gloom
Hung o'er the sunny world, and with the breath Of the triumphant rose came blending thoughts of death.
By thee, sad Love, and by thy sister, Fear, Then was the ideal robe of beauty wrought To vail that haunting shadow, still too near, Still ruling secretly the conqueror's thought,  And, where the board was fraught With wine and myrtles in the summer bower, Felt, e'en when disavow'd, a presence and a power.
But that dark night is closed: and o'er the dead, Here, where the gleamy primrose tufts have blown, And where the mountain heath a couch has spread, And, settling oft on some grey-lettered stone,  The redbreast warbles lone; And the wild bee's deep, drowsy murmurs pass Like a low thrill of harp-strings through the grass:
Here, 'midst the chambers of the Christian's sleep, We o'er death's gulf may look with trusting eye, For hope sits, dove-like, on the gloomy deep, And the green hills wherein these valleys lie  Seem all one sanctuary Of holiest thought—nor needs their fresh bright sod, Urn, wreath, or shrine, for tombs all dedicate to God.
Christ hath arisen!—O mountain peaks! attest, Witness, resounding glen and torrent wave, The immortal courage in the human breast Sprung from that victory—tell how oft the brave  To camp 'midst rock and cave, Nerved by those words, their struggling faith have borne, Planting the cross on high above the clouds of morn.
The Alps have heard sweet hymnings for to-day— Ay, and wild sounds of sterner, deeper tone,
Have thrill'd their pines, when those that knelt to pray Rose up to arm! the pure, high snows have known  A colouring not their own, But from true hearts which by that crimson stain Gave token of a trust that call'd no suffering vain.
Those days are past—the mountains wear no more The solemn splendour of the martyr's blood, And may that awful record, as of yore, Never again be known to field or flood!  E'en though the faithful stood, A noble army, in the exulting sight Of earth and heaven, which bless'd their battle for the right!
But many a martyrdom by hearts unshaken Is yet borne silently in homes obscure; And many a bitter cup is meekly taken;
And, for the strength whereby the just and pure  Thus stedfastly endure, Glory to Him whose victory won that dower, Him, from whose rising stream'd that robe of spirit power.
Glory to him! Hope to the suffering breast! Light to the nations! He hath roll'd away The mists, which, gathering into deathlike rest, Between the soul and Heaven's calm ether lay—  His love hath made it day With those that sat in darkness.—Earth and sea! Lift up glad strains for man by truth divine made free!