 | The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer |  |
241
DANSVILLE CEMETERY.
The murmur of waters I hear,
A pleasant but slumberous sound,
And the hum of the crowd faintly falls on mine ear,
While I linger by head-stone and mound:
Their boughs oak and pine interweave,
And shade on the hallowed place throw,
While winds in their emerald tops seem to grieve
For the sleepers that moulder below;
And never belonged to Arcadian scene
Hill-slope and valley of lovelier green.
A pleasant but slumberous sound,
And the hum of the crowd faintly falls on mine ear,
While I linger by head-stone and mound:
Their boughs oak and pine interweave,
And shade on the hallowed place throw,
While winds in their emerald tops seem to grieve
For the sleepers that moulder below;
And never belonged to Arcadian scene
Hill-slope and valley of lovelier green.
It is meet that a home for the dead
The living should thus set apart—
A pillow provide for the reverend head,
And rest for the sorrow-touched heart.
Let beauty that early feels blight,
And manhood untimely o'erthrown,
In earth's brightest places be buried from sight
Till the trumpet of judgment is blown;
Where fields stretch away like a picture unrolled,
Above their remains should be rounded the mould.
The living should thus set apart—
A pillow provide for the reverend head,
And rest for the sorrow-touched heart.
Let beauty that early feels blight,
And manhood untimely o'erthrown,
In earth's brightest places be buried from sight
Till the trumpet of judgment is blown;
Where fields stretch away like a picture unrolled,
Above their remains should be rounded the mould.
Frail blossoms of childhood, that caught
A blush from the day-break, then died,
Have hither by parents been tenderly brought,
And lovingly rest, side by side;
Ah! poor, little lambs of the flock
That rudely were torn from the fold,
Away with the pomp of the chisel-carved rock
To mark where ye turn into mould!
Where plaid by the spring-time is soonest displayed,
And first seen the blue-bird, your graves should be made.
A blush from the day-break, then died,
Have hither by parents been tenderly brought,
And lovingly rest, side by side;
Ah! poor, little lambs of the flock
That rudely were torn from the fold,
Away with the pomp of the chisel-carved rock
To mark where ye turn into mould!
242
And first seen the blue-bird, your graves should be made.
When swathed in the cold winding-sheet
Is the friend that from youth we have known,
And his generous heart hath forgotten to beat
In friendly response to our own,
It is pleasant to think that he lies
In earth that is hallowed like this,
While round him old hills, crowned with evergreen, rise,
And zephyrs the violets kiss;
While leaf-harp, and wavelet that melts on the shore,
For the loved and the lost wake a dirge evermore.
Is the friend that from youth we have known,
And his generous heart hath forgotten to beat
In friendly response to our own,
It is pleasant to think that he lies
In earth that is hallowed like this,
While round him old hills, crowned with evergreen, rise,
And zephyrs the violets kiss;
While leaf-harp, and wavelet that melts on the shore,
For the loved and the lost wake a dirge evermore.
Here mourners can wander in thought,
Unawed by the presence of death,
To the beautiful field father Abraham bought,
With its cave, from the children of Heth;
And Grief, draped in sable, may find
In these leaf-shaded alleys a balm,
For this pastoral landscape disposes the mind
To a holy and heavenly calm;
And, wreathing the pale reaper's sickle with flowers,
Glad souls seem to flit through these whispering bowers
Unawed by the presence of death,
To the beautiful field father Abraham bought,
With its cave, from the children of Heth;
And Grief, draped in sable, may find
In these leaf-shaded alleys a balm,
For this pastoral landscape disposes the mind
To a holy and heavenly calm;
And, wreathing the pale reaper's sickle with flowers,
Glad souls seem to flit through these whispering bowers
| The poetical works of William H. C. Hosmer | |