University of Virginia Library

Amid the noise and deep pursuit of gain,
And strife of interest, and show, and glare
Of cities, death becomes a spectacle
Of sombre pomp, to gaze on, not to feel;
A thing of stern necessity which all
Idly believe they must encounter, when
Time summons; but they think not that a chance,
A step, a word, a look, may seal their fate,
And bear them on to ruin; the mere form,
The mantle of the grave, so oft beheld,
Becomes familiar—but the thought, that burns
Into the bosom, purifying all
The taints and stains of years, and leading on
The spirit to deep penitence for sin,
Comes not within the heart.—Whene'er the soul
Contemplative, would with the sainted dead
Hold still communion, living forms obtrude,
And blend the grossness and the poor parade
Of earth, with the pure essence of our thought;
And sounds, unmeet for meditation's ear,
Break on the holy solitude, and tear
The spirit from its loftiness, and bring
All the vain forms and unwise usages
Of the cold world, between us and the skies.

But would'st thou feel the deep solemnity
And awe, unmixed, if thou revere heaven's law,
With dread fanatic, go thou to the grave
Of some poor villager, and contemplate
His silent burial! There thou wilt see
The coffin and the bier—the sable pall,
And dark-robed mourners, and thine ear will catch
The dreary stroke of mattock and of spade,
And thou wilt hear that hollow, deathlike sound
Of falling clay, most awful melancholy,
As in the city's mighty burying place.
But less of forms—less of the world around—
More of the spirit of the scene, the flight
Unknown of that most subtle thing called life,
The untravelled realm beyond thee and the Judge
Immaculate, who waits thy coming, then,
In solitude and silence, thou wilt muse,
And bow thy spirit 'neath the throne of heaven.
Tears shed when none can mark them must be pure,
Gushing from the full heart, and when the corse
Is laid within the narrow house, that holds
All man's ambition, love, and wealth, and hope,
And solitude doth shadow all the scene,
Lone on the hillside, thou, in passing near,
To contemplate the last abode of earth,
See'st some pale mourner seated by the grave,
Where the uprooted sods, new placed in earth,
Wither to yellowness in the hot sun,
Thou mayst be sure the grief thou seest is true;
And it will do thy bosom good to mark
That silent mourner; more than loud lament,
And prayers profane, and showers of ready tears,
Such deep yet humble wo avails with Him
Who gave the dead son living to the arms
Of her who had given worlds to see Him live,
Yet asked not back the dead.—The saddest scenes
Of our mortality to searching minds,
Become a pleasure when the human heart
Pours its untainted feelings forth, and gives
Like calm, deep waters, every image back
In nature unimpaired. There is in truth,
Howe'er uncultured, such an eloquence
Of joy or sorrow, as imparts its force
E'en to the hardest heart; and wouldst thou hope
To be remembered fondly after death,
Not with continual tears and sighs, but love
Growing with thought, until it quite absorbs
The heart, and gives its utterance by deeds,
Such as the mourner thinks thou would'st approve
Living—go, and resign thy breath to Him
Who gave it, 'mid calm nature's soft repose!
Then thou wilt sink into thy final rest,
The dreamless sleep whose morning has no end,
With many things to comfort thy departure;
Feeling, when o'er thee comes the last cold thrill
Of shuddering nature, and thy voice grows weak
And hollow, and the dew upon thy brow
Wets the warm lips of love, and many grasp
Convulsively thy bloodless hand, that they
Will kindly think of thee when thou art gone,
And never speak thy name except in praise.