 | The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark |  |
118
THE NAMELESS GRAVE.
'T is a calm spot in Summer's hour and in the dawn of Spring,
While buds come up, like freshening thoughts when Youth is on the wing:
Here, while the unfolding gates of Day, are opening free and wide,
And glory robes the landscape round, in an unsullied pride;
While the amber clouds that gem the West are melting in the sun;
And, lessening in his radiant smile, through the far ether run:
Here, where beneath the sanctity of the bright azure sky,
The new-born birds are dancing on the south wind's fragrant sigh;
Where the sun-lit brook sends on the ear the prattle of its wave,
And melts upon the vernal shore, is placed a nameless Grave!
While buds come up, like freshening thoughts when Youth is on the wing:
Here, while the unfolding gates of Day, are opening free and wide,
And glory robes the landscape round, in an unsullied pride;
While the amber clouds that gem the West are melting in the sun;
And, lessening in his radiant smile, through the far ether run:
Here, where beneath the sanctity of the bright azure sky,
The new-born birds are dancing on the south wind's fragrant sigh;
Where the sun-lit brook sends on the ear the prattle of its wave,
And melts upon the vernal shore, is placed a nameless Grave!
A haunt for monitory thought on life's dull scene is this.
A lesson on its fleeting hour, its little day of bliss:
No sculptured marble marks the spot where this dull clay is laid;
No sigh is breathed, save of the gale, in the dim cypress shade!
And who this wasting breast hath loved, the still grave answers not;
'T is only known its throbs are hushed its weariness forgot:
The clod hath sent its hollow sound up from the coffin-lid:
The farewell hath been spoken—the familiar face been hid!
A lesson on its fleeting hour, its little day of bliss:
119
No sigh is breathed, save of the gale, in the dim cypress shade!
And who this wasting breast hath loved, the still grave answers not;
'T is only known its throbs are hushed its weariness forgot:
The clod hath sent its hollow sound up from the coffin-lid:
The farewell hath been spoken—the familiar face been hid!
And where are they, who once did stand beside this nameless mound,
And felt the unhealed pang of Grief—the bosom's secret wound?
The love they bore, the tears they shed? oh, who the tale may tell!
The fitful winds no record keep, what sorrows then befell;
The sunny brook goes babbling on; the Spring leaves come and go,
Yet they waken not the heart that here lies mouldering and low;
These ashes will not live again till the dim skies abroad
Are as a scroll, and Earth and Sea heave in the breath of God!
And felt the unhealed pang of Grief—the bosom's secret wound?
The love they bore, the tears they shed? oh, who the tale may tell!
The fitful winds no record keep, what sorrows then befell;
The sunny brook goes babbling on; the Spring leaves come and go,
Yet they waken not the heart that here lies mouldering and low;
These ashes will not live again till the dim skies abroad
Are as a scroll, and Earth and Sea heave in the breath of God!
| The poetical writings of the late Willis Gaylord Clark | |