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EARTH SPEAKETH TO EARTH.
A GRAVE LYRIC.
I leaned me over a grave-yard wall,
Where the grass before me grew rank and tall,
And bowed in the wind its heavy head,
As if in reverence for the dead;
The acacia-tree rustled its mournful leaves,
Like the rustle of silk when the widow grieves:
As I listened, a still voice met my ear —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
Said the old calm grave-yard dark and drear;
I will hold you clasped in a fond embrace,
And watch o'er your silent resting-place.
The grand old trees o'er your bed shall swing,
And the birds in the waving branches sing;
Naught shall disturb your slumbering ear —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
Leave the world with its tumult, its strife and fear;
Here is peace that speaks from the deep green grass
In whispers, as o'er it the breezes pass;
Here is quiet and rest to the weary heart,
That long has suffered 'neath sorrow's smart;
O, leave the heart-ache anguish drear —
Come over here! come over here!
Where the grass before me grew rank and tall,
And bowed in the wind its heavy head,
As if in reverence for the dead;
The acacia-tree rustled its mournful leaves,
Like the rustle of silk when the widow grieves:
As I listened, a still voice met my ear —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
Said the old calm grave-yard dark and drear;
I will hold you clasped in a fond embrace,
And watch o'er your silent resting-place.
The grand old trees o'er your bed shall swing,
And the birds in the waving branches sing;
Naught shall disturb your slumbering ear —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
Leave the world with its tumult, its strife and fear;
Here is peace that speaks from the deep green grass
In whispers, as o'er it the breezes pass;
Here is quiet and rest to the weary heart,
That long has suffered 'neath sorrow's smart;
O, leave the heart-ache anguish drear —
Come over here! come over here!
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Come over here! come over here!
This is the garner of many a year;
This is the bourn where the weary rest,
The high and lowly, the bad and best;
Their voice is stilled and their heart is cold,
In the chilly damp of the grave-yard mould,
But from their forms bright things uprear —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
The child, and the youth, and the old man sere,
Have lent their strength and lent their charms
To grace the grave-yard's folding arms!
I will deck your couch with the vernal flowers,
And tears shall fall in the summer showers,
The smiling sun your bed shall cheer —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
O, gaze not on me with looks of fear.
I will clasp you close to my motherly heart
Till you grow of my very self a part;
My teeming breast shall yield anew
With the strength of its motherly love so true;
For the mother earth loves her children dear —
Come over here! come over here!
This is the garner of many a year;
This is the bourn where the weary rest,
The high and lowly, the bad and best;
Their voice is stilled and their heart is cold,
In the chilly damp of the grave-yard mould,
But from their forms bright things uprear —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
The child, and the youth, and the old man sere,
Have lent their strength and lent their charms
To grace the grave-yard's folding arms!
I will deck your couch with the vernal flowers,
And tears shall fall in the summer showers,
The smiling sun your bed shall cheer —
Come over here! come over here!
Come over here! come over here!
O, gaze not on me with looks of fear.
I will clasp you close to my motherly heart
Till you grow of my very self a part;
My teeming breast shall yield anew
With the strength of its motherly love so true;
For the mother earth loves her children dear —
Come over here! come over here!
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