’Twas on one pensive even tide,
When restless toil and day
had fled;
I laid all airy scenes aside,
To wander o’er the silent
dead.
The rising moon from eastern sky,
O’er the lone heath
shed languid light,
And boding owls with fearful cry
Heightened the solemn gloom
of night.
With pensive steps I reach’d the
pile,
Where well wrought limbs return
to clay;
And tow’ring marble’s pompous
style
Points out the great, the
rich, the gay.
But where’s ambition’s piercing
eye,
His restless look, his haughty
air?
They’re vanish’d all, and
near him lie
Frames that once fed on black
despair.
What though the marble’s rais’d
o’er one,
To tell his former wealth
or worth,
While a green turf, or mossy stone,
Denote the man of humbler
birth.
Yet all in silence mould’ring lie
In the cold grave where vapors
glide,
The beggar here’s as fair as he
Who rolled in wealth, or swam
in pride.
’Neath a green mound there slept
a youth,
Whose form in life in beauty
bloom’d:
His manner sweet, his speech was truth,
But nought could save him
from the tomb.
At little distance from his side,
A wild rose shed a pearly
tear
O’er her who would have been his
bride,
Had not dread death been thus
severe.
I mus’d in silence on their fate,
And watch’d the graves
where low they lie,
Reflecting on their altered state.
From nuptial bliss to mould’ring
clay,
And such, methinks, the lot of all;
We picture joys with eager
eye,
’Till death’s damp curtains
round us fall,
And silent in his arms we
lie.
Beneath a verdant, grassy mound,
Where gemmed with dew the
daisy weeps;
In death’s cold slumber wrapped
profound,
A gentle mother peaceful sleeps.
No storied urn bespeaks her worth.
No epitaph or stone is near;
But the wild flow’rs that strew
the earth,
Are watered oft by many a
tear.
And oh, such tribute is more dear
Warm gushing from affection’s
eye,
Than the cold marble’s senseless
praise,
That sheds no tear that
heaves no sigh.
A little path is closely worn,
Where prattling children often
stray,
And o’er their sainted mother mourn,
To shield her memory from
decay.
And hoary age has sunk to rest,
Deep buried ’neath the
crumbling sod;
No anxious cares disturb his breast,
His ransom’d soul has
flown to God.
Weary and sad, he struggled on
Life’s rugged
pathway, till its close;
And then, in death, lay calmly down,
To slumber in its deep
repose.
I turn’d to view a little grave,
Where infant sweetness
silent slept;
There the tall myrtle mournful way’d,
The willow there in
sorrow slept.
“Sleep on,” I cried, “thy
little breast
Ne’er knew the
heartfelt woes of men;
No pain or care disturb thy rest,
Or jarring scenes obstruct
thy ken.
“Happy, like thee, might I resign
This life in Virtue’s
purest ray,
And spring to life and joy divine,
Free from this cumbrous load of clay.
But hark! I hear the boding owl,
With fearful screams
at distance cry;
The evening breezes mournful howl,
And bats their nightly
circles ply.
Thick, sombre clouds obscur’d the
sky,
And hid the moon’s
refulgent light
No sparkling star shed cheerful ray.
To light the lonely
shades of night.
I grop’d my way with careful tread,
To shun the cold, unconscious
urn,
And left the mansions of the dead,
Where soon or late I
must return.
For I must sleep with ages past,
And ages yet to come,
Till the last trump of God shall wake
Each tenant of the tomb.