Yes, and it fills us with hope, it moves us to prayer, even to think of such a spot. What quietness, what beauty of visible nature, what harmony of rural sounds, what soothing emblems, in a word, of precious and glorious spiritual speculations, and what stirring yet soothing monitors to christian philosophy and to holy emotion were mingled with all the more customary and palpable minutiae of the scene!-Would that my dust, too, might lie at last in some such “grave-yard of the Patriarchs!” Oh! leave me not to the noisomeness of a burial in the city;--I like not the thought. Let the birds sing over me, if they will, and the green
With walks between, by friends and kindred trod,
Who drest with duteous hands each hallowed sod.
No sculptured monument was taught to breathe
His praises whom the worm devoured beneath.
The high, the low, the mighty, and the fair,
Equal in death, were undistinguished there.
Yet not a hillock mouldered near that spot,
By one dishonored, or by all forgot.
To some warm heart the poorest dust was near,
From some kind eye the meanest claimed a tear.
And oft the living, by affection led,
Were wont to walk in spirit with their dead,
Where no dark cypress cast a doleful gloom,
No blighting yew shed poison o'er the tomb,
But white and red, with intermingling flowers,
The graves looked beautiful in sun and showers.
Green myrtles fenced them, and beyond that bound
Ran the clear rill, with ever-murmuring sound.
'T was not a scene for grief to nourish care,--
It breathed of hope, it moved the heart to prayer.
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