On the Hill of the Dead - Reid

ON THE HILL OF THE DEAD
By John Reid (1800s-1900s)

There is a narrow pathway familiar to my feet,
That crowns a bank of sadness and forms a silent street;

The green moss lies upon it, so seldom is it trod,
Save when the living use it to leave their dead with God.

I love that silent pathway, where only footprints fall
Of those whose love is faithful beyond the grave’s recall;

And there I often linger and watch the setting sun
Light up the home that waits me when my shor day is done,

And sometimes idly wonder if when I come to stay,
Any will come anigh me to break the long, still day.

I shall be dead and know not, but if I knew it now,
The death-dew might not gather so coldly on my brow:

Still I would live, for, living, the dead are with me yet,
Their life in mine up-gathered till I their love forget.

If God’s above, I pray not that He my soul shall save,
But that He keep His arms close-wrapt about this little grave:

It is the spot most precious on all His earth to me,
Where now my heart lies buried, where soon my bones shall be.

The old cathedral’s shadow comes creeping up the hill,
Uniting those who worship and those who wait His will;

And night enwraps the living, and night enwraps the dead,—
A short sleep, a long sleep, and who shall raise the head?

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From Ballads and Poems by Members of the Glasgow Ballad Club, 1898