Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs By Walter Thornbury. Illustrated by J. Whistler, F. Walker, John Tenniel, J. D. Watson, W. Small, F. Sandys, G. J. Pinwell, T. Morten, M. J. Lawless, and many others |
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The Private Burying-Place.
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 | Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs |  |
The Private Burying-Place.
The chestnut opens out its fans;
The beech unfolds its pleated leaves;
The goldfinch in the hawthorn-bush
Its nest with soft moss weaves;
Hard by, the brook (where cresses throng)
Runs, babbling merrily, along.
The beech unfolds its pleated leaves;
The goldfinch in the hawthorn-bush
Its nest with soft moss weaves;
Hard by, the brook (where cresses throng)
Runs, babbling merrily, along.
This is the spot I've singled out
For my last long tranquil sleep.
I'll lie with folded hands in trance,
Through which low murmuring tones will creep,
Dim memories of yesterday,
And voices sweet, but far away.
For my last long tranquil sleep.
I'll lie with folded hands in trance,
Through which low murmuring tones will creep,
Dim memories of yesterday,
And voices sweet, but far away.
The wind is surging in the firs
(Those red-barked giants of the wood);
The rooks are wheeling round the elms,
That now the widening blossoms hood;
No other sound, but where the brook
Gurgles around some stony nook.
(Those red-barked giants of the wood);
The rooks are wheeling round the elms,
That now the widening blossoms hood;
No other sound, but where the brook
Gurgles around some stony nook.
Here, when my long day's work is done,
I shall lie underneath the grass,
And still, like one in a half-trance,
Shall yet distinguish men that pass;
For sorrows, even such as mine,
Death brings a certain anodyne.
I shall lie underneath the grass,
And still, like one in a half-trance,
Shall yet distinguish men that pass;
For sorrows, even such as mine,
Death brings a certain anodyne.
The little airy globes of down
Shall poise above me; and the bees
Drag at the purple clover flowers;
And all day long, high in the trees,
The blackbird, with his golden pipe,
Shall sing of Summer ere 't is ripe.
Shall poise above me; and the bees
Drag at the purple clover flowers;
And all day long, high in the trees,
The blackbird, with his golden pipe,
Shall sing of Summer ere 't is ripe.
After a toilsome sordid life,
What majesty there is in Death!
What riches that no king can touch!
What mystery in the ceasing breath!
Sorrows that time hath brought to me,
Share not my immortality.
What majesty there is in Death!
What riches that no king can touch!
What mystery in the ceasing breath!
Sorrows that time hath brought to me,
Share not my immortality.
The trefoil shall grow thick and soft,
And daisies star my emerald pall;
And soft shall fall the Summer dew,
And soft the Summer showers shall fall;
The sunbeams shall point to my grave,
And the plumed grasses o'er me wave.
And daisies star my emerald pall;
And soft shall fall the Summer dew,
And soft the Summer showers shall fall;
The sunbeams shall point to my grave,
And the plumed grasses o'er me wave.
When I lie deep down in the hold
Of this great planet-ship of ours,
And it shall roll and circle on
Through its predestined days and hours,
Come storm or tempest, I shall rest
Warm in my little sheltered nest.
Of this great planet-ship of ours,
And it shall roll and circle on
Through its predestined days and hours,
Come storm or tempest, I shall rest
Warm in my little sheltered nest.
150
Sprinkle upon me drifting rain,
Or swathes of cold effacing snow,
Or let the sunshine burn and parch,
I shall be still and calm below;
I shall fear neither rain nor sun,
When I and Mother-earth are one.
Or swathes of cold effacing snow,
Or let the sunshine burn and parch,
I shall be still and calm below;
I shall fear neither rain nor sun,
When I and Mother-earth are one.
The generations pass away
Like the winged thistle-seed; why then
Fear Death more than the clover does?
We cannot change the doom of men.
So welcome Death: these woes of mine,
They need thy certain anodyne.
Like the winged thistle-seed; why then
Fear Death more than the clover does?
We cannot change the doom of men.
So welcome Death: these woes of mine,
They need thy certain anodyne.
| Historical & Legendary Ballads & Songs | |