 | Later Lays and Lyrics |  |
DALE CEMETERY, AT SING-SING.
I.
I love thy hallowed limits, Place of Graves!I love the quiet of thy hills and dells,
Where the lone dash of Hudson's wintry waves,
Softened by distance, like a dirge-note swells:
Those who can look on scenes so fair, unmoved,
Have never Nature loved.
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II.
When o'er the war of life, who would not restFrom toil and trouble in a place so sweet,—
Rounded the funeral mound above his breast,
Far from the din of throngs and trampling feet?
Here Grief throws by her sables, and puts on
A golden smile like dawn.
III.
Those who were dear to me in other daysLie in dissevered beds of dreamless sleep—
Oh! would that here the marble I might raise
Above their dust, and sorrow's vigil keep;
The corse bring hither from the distant West
Of one I loved the best.
IV.
She lies too near the crowded thoroughfare,And rattling wheels throw dust upon her tomb;
She loved the mountain, and the liberal air—
Spring's violet beauty, and rich summer's bloom;
Ah! more of peace would harbor in my breast
Could here that loved one rest.
V.
And she of winning look and sunny tress,Of softly rounded cheek and dark-blue eye—
My long-mourned daughter, lovely little Bess,
Cut off untimely, by her side should lie;
Yon brook that sends its murmur to mine ear
Speaks of those dead ones dear.
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VI.
Here death arrays his form in softest guise,And Beauty, stricken by his mortal blow,
Who comes with folded arms and curtained eyes,
He welcomes with a lover's whisper low;
And perished childhood, with a smiling face,
Folds in his hushed embrace.
VII.
Ambition, here, his struggles, dreams and hopesAll ended, like a child may lay him down—
The flitting shadow on yon mountain slopes,
Apt symbol of his dream of wild renown:
And Pleasure, sated with life's wasting wine,
Her head in peace recline.
VIII.
These hillocks, swelling over silent breasts,Seem waves of life arrested in their flow,
And a deep calm, as of Elysium, rests
On upland ridge and glen that lies below,
And first, beneath the light of vernal skies,
Here violets uprise.
IX.
Sweet Place of Graves! I thank thee for the calmThy landscape has infused into my soul—
The wounded bosom here may find a balm,
And life grow tranquil as it nears the goal;
This scene, composed of forest, wave and hill,
Makes the wild pulse grow still.
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