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Four American poets

Chapter 8: CHAPTER V THANATOPSIS
By Sherwin Cody
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About This Book

Aimed at young readers, this compact collection presents four readable biographical sketches of notable poets, following childhood influences, schooling, early experiments in verse, and the circumstances behind key works. Each section pairs narrative anecdotes with explanations of themes such as nature, moral conviction, and public engagement, and includes episodes about professional life, honors, and later years. Organized into short chapters that highlight formative scenes, poetic methods, and memorable incidents, the book uses plain language and illustrative detail to make poetic craft and imagery accessible while encouraging appreciation of differing temperaments and literary approaches.

CHAPTER V
THANATOPSIS

Every child at school becomes familiar with this grand poem, because it is in many of the higher readers. But that is not enough. You should learn to understand its meaning. As you read this poem, are you not reminded of the deep notes of a church organ, as the organist, left alone, plays some mighty fugue in preparation for the funeral of a great man? Thanatopsis (made up from two Greek words) means a view of death. The poem opens by calling to our minds the grandeurs and the beauty of a cathedral-like wood, where Nature rules supreme.

To him who in the love of Nature holds
Communion with her visible forms, she speaks
A various language; for his gayer hours she
Has a voice of gladness, and a smile
And eloquence of beauty, and she glides
Into his darker musings with a mild
And healing sympathy, that steals away
Their sharpness ere he is aware.

We should hardly expect a young man of seventeen to be meditating on death; but even very young people often think about it.

When thoughts
Of the last bitter hour come like a blight
Over thy spirit, and sad images
Of the stern agony, and shroud, and pall,
And breathless darkness, and the narrow house,
Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart—

These are the things we all think of when father or mother or brother or sister or young friend dies and is laid away in the earth. It is sad and terrible, and we cannot help weeping. At those times strong men and women shed tears, and we do not think it strange. But, says Bryant,—

Go forth under the open sky and list
To Nature’s teachings, while from all around—
Earth and her waters, and the depths of air—
Comes a still voice: Yet a few days, and thee
The all-beholding sun shall see no more
In all his course; nor yet in the cold ground,
Where thy pale form was laid, with many tears,
Nor in the embrace of ocean, shall exist
Thy image. Earth, that nourished thee, shall claim
Thy growth, to be resolved to earth again;
And, lost each human trace, surrendering up
Thine individual being, shalt thou go
To mix forever with the elements,
To be a brother to the insensible rock
And to the sluggish clod, which the rude swain
Turns with his share, and treads upon. The oak
Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.
Yet not to thine eternal resting-place
Shalt thou retire alone, nor couldst thou wish
Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down
With patriarchs of the infant world—with kings,
The powerful of the earth—the wise, the good,
Fair forms, and hoary seers of ages past,
All in one mighty sepulchre.

Being turned back to earth again does not seem so terrible when we think that all must have the same fate. There is a suggestion of grandeur in the thought that George Washington, King Solomon, Sir Isaac Newton, Napoleon—all lie in the same bed which Nature, the all-ruling, everlasting power, has provided.

The hills,
Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun,—the vales,
Stretching in pensive quietness between;
The venerable woods,—rivers that move
In majesty, and the complaining brooks
That make the meadows green; and, poured round all,
Old Ocean’s gray and melancholy waste,—
Are but the solemn decorations all
Of the great tomb of man.

When we reflect on how many have lived and died, the earth seems but one great tomb. There are said to be over 1,200,000,000 persons on the earth to-day. In a few years they will all have passed away, and others will have taken their places; and this change has been going on for thousands and thousands of years. In the graveyards of any city will be found but a few hundred or at most a few thousand graves; yet hundreds of thousands of people have died there and been buried. Where are their graves? Lost and forgotten.

All that tread
The globe are but a handful to the tribes
That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings
Of morning, pierce the Barcan wilderness,
Or lose thyself in the continuous woods
Where rolls the Oregon, and hears no sound
Save his own dashings—yet the dead are there:
And millions in those solitudes, since first
The flight of years began, have laid them down
In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.
So shalt thou rest; and what if thou withdraw
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favorite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glides away, the sons of men,
The youth in life’s green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the grey-headed man—
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side,
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live that when thy summons comes to join
The innumerable caravan, which moves
To that mysterious realm where each shall take
His chamber in the silent halls of death,
Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night,
Scourged to his dungeon, but sustained and soothed
By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave
Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch
About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.