The grave and the tomb.1
The tomb is not so interesting as the grave.
It savors of pride in those who can now be proud no longer; of distinction, where all are equal; of a feeling of eminence even under the hand of the great leveller of all our dust.
And how useless to us are all the ensigns of magnificence that can be piled up above our bed!
What though a sepulchral lamp throw its light up to the princely vaults under which my remains repose!
They would rest as quietly were there no lamp there.
The sleeping dust fears nothing.
No dreams disturb it. It would not mark the neglect, should the sepulchral lamp be suffered to expire.
It will not complain of the neglect, should it never be lighted again.
And why should my cold clay be imprisoned with so much care Why thus immured, to keep it, as it would seem, from mingling with its kindred clay?
When “that which warmed it once” animates it no