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The morning may break
O'er the valley in gladness ;
eyes cannot wake
The evening may come,
But its fall shall endear not;
Weep, Emmeline, weep,
WRITTEN IN A CHURCHYARD.
Wild as the rocking of a bark upon a stormy sea,
And yet there is an unity, though indistinct and dim,
A veil of sadness had passed o'er, my spirit like a cloud, Or as around the lonely dead, is drawn the winding
shroud; I paesed on in my mournfulness, and in the churchyard's
gloom, I sat me down to meditate upon an ancient tomb.
I looked around as if to ease my spirit's deep distress, But Nature's self appeared to join, in my sad weariness ; The sun was passing to his resto--the clouds were sailing
by, And the wind had spread his wings, upon the fretwork of
His wings were shaking heavily, and sadly sighed the
trees, You mought have thought that a spirit passed upon the
fearful breeze; For the grass bowed down upon the earth, and trembled
as with fear, And I shuddered as the rustling sounds came sweeping
past my ear.
Oh it was very loneliness, yet I could not choose but'stay, Though the awful thoughts that o'er me came, filled me
with dark dismay; I could not choose but look, upon the tombs so lowly laid, I could not choose but think upon the silent and the
dead ! Oh ye dead ! ye of the visage pale, Ye of the place of vision in Hinnom's lonely vale, How wonderful a tale is in your prison-house concealed, A tale we may not-cannot know, till all things are 're
Ye fell away as wavelets, from the rolling sea of time,
ral chime Ye fell away in the rush of years, your day of life passed
o'er, And the place that once hath known ye well, now knoweth ye
Yet though ye sleep the dreamless sleep, the rustling grass
And fall the heavy churchyard dews, like tears upon your But I love not to look on your tombs, nor the heaped up
earth around, For an awful tale of mortality, it speaks without a sound.
I love to look on the lonely sea, ye slumber sweetest there, No foot there spurns your resting-place, or lays your dry
bones bare: So gaze we on the sea'till mingled with the soul, The restless billows and the sense together wildly roll.
Yet let us think of glory as we look upon
the dead, And think not that in endless sleep, their bones at rest are
For when the sun of faith hath risen on the ocean dark of
sleep, Their dreamy shades in its light will rise forbidding us to
Ye of the lovely forms !—where is your glory now ?
each brow : Arise, arise ye glorious ones! better be walking dead, Than in corruption's horrors to repose your low-laid head.
Ye of the mighty arm-how powerless ye lie,
Yet the angels blast shall the mighty ones, with strength
again inspire, And to the eloquent be given tongues cloven as of fire.'
But oh where are the dearest ones, we cherished above all ? No voice comes from the narrow bed, no sound from the
dreary pall; 'Tis silence, for no sound may pass from yonder lifeless clay, Save the echoes of the hollow tombs, that answer where
There's a language in your silence, it breaks on the mental
ear, And the quivering lip of sorrow makes its accents to ap
pear, • Ashes to ashes,' Think ye it may speak of further trust ? It cannot pierce the charnel's gloom, and there 'tis . dust to
I looked around me yet again the sun bad sunk in night, The moon poured down her cataract of pale and flooding
light; Like the bright sun's fall are the living ones that sink be
neath the earth, But like the glorious moon will rise in heaven a second