Idle Moments : :: :: University of Virginia Library

The setting sun now gilds the evening sky,
And darkness settles over land and sea;
And birds and bees, aweary, homeward fly,
To seek their rest within the sheltering trees.

The honest lab'rers daily task is done,
And, home to rest the tired steed is led;
A solemn silence settles o'er each home,
And stillness greets “The City of the Dead.”

Sweet music floats upon the list'ning ear,
As to this long, last resting place we come,
To place upon each quiet mound so near,
Some sweet rememb'rance of the days now gone.

Upon each mound we drop a silent tear,
Upon each grave we place some flowers fair,
Whose leaves must fade and wither, year by year,
And die to leave not e'en a memory there.

Within these sacred grounds our dead are laid,
Who all life's weary journey now have done;
Who—all their solemn debt to nature paid—
Now rest beneath the shade—with God at home.

Within these precints silent forms repose,
Who hearts once burned with strong celestial fires;
Whose souls no more may deep ambition know,
But rest in silent gloom, both son and sire.

Near yonder stone an infant form doth lie,
Whose eyes scarce opened to the light of day,
E'er death in all its silent gloom drew nigh,
And bore its soul from reals of earth away.

Just there a child whose infant feet had trod
Upon the blooms of six or seven springs;
'Mid parents' tears and sobs was borne to God
On angel's fair and strong celestial wings.

Hard by a maiden turning in her teens,
A school-girl just from school and books away,
A youth in hope's young spring of blissful dreams
All borne aloft to realms of endless day.

There middle age, within life's brightest morn
That monster came to summon him away;
Of all his youth and joy and splendor shore,
And made a stiffened corpse in one brief day.

And, last of all, lies hoary-headed age,
That feel, “like autumn fruit that mellowed long,”
Whose hopes had fled; the withering fal'tring,
Who left in triumph for the realms of song.

Here high and low and wise and ignorant meet,
Here, side by side, both great and small repose,
Here he who toiled, and he who studied greet,
The grave no small, no wise, no ignorant knows.

Here they all meet whose mem'ries we hold dear,
Their works are done, their toils and cares are o'er,
The hopes are dead: the pine and faded sear
Now mark the spot, their forms are seen no more.

Scott Gwathney's here and Humphrey Osborne, too,
Their swords laid down, and gone the living breath,
And Brooks, that voice that once the hustings knew,
Now sleeps the long, last, silent sleep of death.

James Bowser's here, his earnest life work done,
And Robert Brown the countless thousands swell,
And Fitzhugh too, his checkered life race run,
Helps heap the mound where many loved ones dwell.

Our Maggie's here, whose music cheered our hearts,
And made the cares of life, so bitter, sweet;
Those fingers stilled to take no more their part;
And soldiers brave who fought, their end here meet.

And each of us can point to some dear spot,
Where friend or kindred rest in sweet repose;
Where we have wept and placed forget-me-nots,
And wreath-entwined the holly and the rose.

Rest on! brave souls! we would not call them back,
To this drear land, where sin and sorrow dwell;
Where pain and care are ever on our track,
And happy years, but toll a funeral knell.

Each year we'll come to strew upon their graves
Sweet flowers fair, until we too shall come,
From joys and griefs and hopes of earthly days,
To dwell with them within their silent home.

When we shall go from earth to realms of shade,
To take our places in the silent mound,
May others come to deck our silent graves,
And rise anew when God's last trump shall sound.