Thomas Cole's poetry the collected poems of America's foremost painter of the Hudson River School reflecting his feelings for nature and the romantic spirit of the Nineteenth Century |
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The Burial Ground at Catskill |
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 | Thomas Cole's poetry |  |
180
86.
The Burial Ground at Catskill
The hill is climb'd and this the place of rest—
Here, among tombs beneath whose simple shade
Sleep those who wake not, when the eastern light
Streams o'er the hills, and gilds the silky grass
That waves, and whispers o'er their lowly bed.
Close are the earthy curtains that surround
Them drawn and not a single ray can pierce
The silent valley of their deep repose—
They need it not,—their tasks of toil are o'er—
No more the voice of friendship or of love
Calls them to gaze upon the glorious morn—
But oft a mourner o'er the simple tomb
Woos from his memory lov'd and cherish'd things
And as each image rises from the deep
The fount of sorrow gushes forth afresh—
This is indeed a place of rest and such
Would be my choice if heav'n would grant my boon,
To be sepulchred here—to rest upon
The spot of earth that living I have lov'd.
No marble pile, no vaunting verse I wish
To mark my resting place to tell the world
Of virtues that I ne'er possess'd—for pomp
An icier chill gives to the cold clay—
But here! beneath the solemn dome of heaven,
Where the free winds forever warble wild
Where yon far mountains steep; would constant look
Upon the grave of one who lov'd to gaze on them—
Here, among tombs beneath whose simple shade
Sleep those who wake not, when the eastern light
Streams o'er the hills, and gilds the silky grass
That waves, and whispers o'er their lowly bed.
Close are the earthy curtains that surround
Them drawn and not a single ray can pierce
The silent valley of their deep repose—
They need it not,—their tasks of toil are o'er—
No more the voice of friendship or of love
Calls them to gaze upon the glorious morn—
But oft a mourner o'er the simple tomb
Woos from his memory lov'd and cherish'd things
And as each image rises from the deep
The fount of sorrow gushes forth afresh—
This is indeed a place of rest and such
Would be my choice if heav'n would grant my boon,
To be sepulchred here—to rest upon
The spot of earth that living I have lov'd.
No marble pile, no vaunting verse I wish
To mark my resting place to tell the world
Of virtues that I ne'er possess'd—for pomp
An icier chill gives to the cold clay—
But here! beneath the solemn dome of heaven,
Where the free winds forever warble wild
Where yon far mountains steep; would constant look
Upon the grave of one who lov'd to gaze on them—
O! I have stood here when the westering sun
Had placed a glory on the scene and gaz'd
Upon the mountains woods, and sky, until
My spirit disenthralled, forgot its clay—
It moved among the mountains and amid
The clouds rejoicing held its way.
Had placed a glory on the scene and gaz'd
Upon the mountains woods, and sky, until
My spirit disenthralled, forgot its clay—
It moved among the mountains and amid
The clouds rejoicing held its way.
| Thomas Cole's poetry | |