Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way,
No fraud upon the dead commit,
Observe the swelling turf, and say,
They do not lie, but here they sit.

Here still a lofty rock remains,

On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race.

Here still an aged elm aspires,

Beneath whose far projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest played.

There oft a restless Indian queen

(Pale Shebah with her braided hair),
And many a barbarous form is seen
To chide the man that lingers there.

By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews,
In habit for the chase arrayed,

The hunter still the deer pursues,
The hunter and the deer-a shade!

And long shall timorous Fancy see
The painted chief, and pointed spear,
And Reason's self shall bow the knee
To shadows and delusions here.

Philip Freneau [1752-1832]

GOD'S-ACRE

I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls
The burial-ground God's-Acre! It is just;
It consecrates each grave within its walls,
And breathes a benison o'er the sleeping dust.

God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts
Comfort to those who in the grave have sown
The seed that they had garnered in their hearts,
Their bread of life, alas! no more their own.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith, that we shall rise again
At the great harvest, when the archangel's blast
Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.
Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom,

In the fair garden of that second birth;
And each bright blossom mingle its perfume

With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth.

With thy rude plowshare, Death, turn up the sod,
And spread the furrow for the seed we sow;

This is the field and Acre of our God,

This is the place where human harvests grow.
Henry Wadsworth Longfellow [1807-1882]

THE CITY OF THE DEAD

THEY do neither plight nor wed

In the city of the dead,

In the city where they sleep away the hours;

But they lie, while o'er them range
Winter blight and Summer change,

And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers.
No, they neither wed nor plight,

And the day is like the night,

For their vision is of other kind than ours.

They do neither sing nor sigh

In that burg of by and by,

Where the streets have grasses growing cool and long;

But they rest within their bed,

Leaving all their thoughts unsaid,

Deeming silence better far than sob or song.

No, they neither sigh nor sing,

Though the robin be a-wing,

Though the leaves of Autumn march a million strong.

There is only rest and peace

In the City of Surcease

From the failings and the wailings 'neath the sun,

And the wings of the swift years

Beat but gently o'er the biers,

Making music to the sleepers every one.

There is only peace and rest;

But to them it seemeth best,

For they lie at ease and know that life is done.
Richard Burton [1859-

THE GARDEN THAT I LOVE

THE Garden that I love is full of Light;

It lies upon the sloping of a hill,

Where Dawn first stirs the curtains of the Night,
And the breeze whispers when the Noon is still.

The garden that I love is full of Peace;
The voices of the vale are faint and far,
The busy murmurs of the highway cease,
And silently, at evening, comes the Star.

The garden that I love is full of Dreams;

Visions of joy gone by, and bliss that waits, Beyond the furthest verge of sunset gleams, With the wide opening of the Golden Gates.

The garden that I love is full of Rest;

God's own fair Acre, where His dear ones lie, In the safe shelter of the kind earth's breast, Waiting His Easter dawning up the sky.

There may I rest, asleep with them awhile,

There may I wake, with them, that glorious Day, When, in the sunshine of the Master's smile, Sorrow and sighing shall be swept away!

THE OLD SEXTON

NIGH to a grave that was newly made,

Leaned a sexton old on his earth-worn spade;
His work was done, and he paused to wait
The funeral-train at the open gate.

A relic of by-gone days was he,

And his locks were gray as the foamy sea;
And these words came from his lips so thin:
"I gather them in-I gather them in-
Gather-gather-gather them in.

"I gather them in; for man and boy,
Year after year of grief and joy,

I've builded the houses that lie around
In every nook of this burial-ground,
Mother and daughter, father and son,
Come to my solitude, one by one;

But come they stranger, or come they kin,
I gather them in-I gather them in.

"Many are with me, yet I'm alone;

I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne
On a monument slab of marble cold-

My scepter of rule is the spade I hold.

Come they from cottage, or come they from hall,

Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all!

May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin,

I gather them in-I gather them in.

"I gather them in, and their final rest

Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!"
And the sexton ceased as the funeral-train
Wound mutely over that solemn plain;
And I said to myself: When time is told,
A mightier voice than that sexton's old,
Will sound o'er the last trump's dreadful din:
"I gather them in-I gather them in-

Gather-gather-gather them in.”

Park Benjamin [1809-1864]

GRAVE-DIGGER'S SONG

From "Prince Lucifer"

THE crab, the bullace, and the sloe,

They burgeon in the Spring;

And, when the west wind melts the snow,
The redstarts build and sing,

But Death's at work in rind and root,
And loves the green buds best;
And when the pairing music's mute,
He spares the empty nest,

Death! Death!

Death is master of lord and clown.

Close the coffin, and hammer it down.

When nuts are brown and sere without,
And white and plump within,
And juicy gourds are passed about,
And trickle down the chin;

When comes the reaper with his scythe,
And reaps and nothing leaves,
Oh, then it is that Death is blithe,
And sups among the sheaves.

Death! Death!

Lower the coffin and slip the cord:
Death is master of clown and lord.

When logs about the house are stacked,
And next year's hose is knit,

And tales are told and jokes are cracked,
And faggots blaze and spit;

Death sits down in the ingle-nook,

Sits down and doth not speak:

But he puts his arm round the maid that's warm, And she tingles in the cheek.

Death! Death!

Death is master of lord and clown;

Shovel the clay in, tread it down.

Alfred Austin [1835

DAYBREAK

A WIND came up out of the sea,

And said, "O mists, make room for me!"

It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on,
Ye mariners, the night is gone!"