 | Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds |  |
35
THE CHURCHYARD.
The moon rises bright in the east,
The stars with purple brilliancy shine;
The songs of the woodlands have ceased;
And still is the low of the kine:
The men from their work on the hill
Trudge homeward with pitchfork and flail,
The buzz of the hamlet is still,
And the bat flaps his wings in the gale.
The stars with purple brilliancy shine;
The songs of the woodlands have ceased;
And still is the low of the kine:
The men from their work on the hill
Trudge homeward with pitchfork and flail,
The buzz of the hamlet is still,
And the bat flaps his wings in the gale.
And see from those darkly green trees
Of cypress and holly and yew,
That wave their long arms in the breeze,
The old village church is in view.
The owl, from her ivied retreat,
Sereams hoarse to the winds of the night;
And the clock, with its solemn repeat,
Has toll'd the departure of light
Of cypress and holly and yew,
That wave their long arms in the breeze,
The old village church is in view.
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Sereams hoarse to the winds of the night;
And the clock, with its solemn repeat,
Has toll'd the departure of light
My child, let us wander alone,
When half the wide world is in bed,
And read the gray mouldering stone,
That tells of the mouldering dead:
And let us remember it well,
That we must as certainly die,
Must bid the sweet daylight farewell,
Green earth and the beautiful sky!
When half the wide world is in bed,
And read the gray mouldering stone,
That tells of the mouldering dead:
And let us remember it well,
That we must as certainly die,
Must bid the sweet daylight farewell,
Green earth and the beautiful sky!
You are not so healthy and gay,
So young, and so active, and bright,
That death cannot snatch you away,
Or some dreadful accident smite.
Here lie both the young and the old,
Confined in the coffin so small,
The earth covers over them cold,
The grave-worm devours them all.
So young, and so active, and bright,
That death cannot snatch you away,
Or some dreadful accident smite.
37
Confined in the coffin so small,
The earth covers over them cold,
The grave-worm devours them all.
In vain were the beauty and bloom
That once o'er their bodies were spread,
Now, still in the desolate tomb,
Each rests his inanimate head.
Their fingers, so busy before,
Shall silently crumble away,
Nor even a smile, any more,
About the pale countenance play.
That once o'er their bodies were spread,
Now, still in the desolate tomb,
Each rests his inanimate head.
Their fingers, so busy before,
Shall silently crumble away,
Nor even a smile, any more,
About the pale countenance play.
Then seek not, my child, as the best,
The pleasures which shortly must fade;
Let piety dwell in thy breast,
And all of thy actions pervade:
And then, when beneath the green sod
This active young body shall lie,
Thy soul shall ascend to its God,
To live with the blest in the sky.
The pleasures which shortly must fade;
Let piety dwell in thy breast,
And all of thy actions pervade:
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This active young body shall lie,
Thy soul shall ascend to its God,
To live with the blest in the sky.
| Jane and Ann Taylor: Original Poems for Infant Minds | |