| |
| THERE was an open grave,—and many an eye | |
| Look’d down upon it. Slow the sable hearse | |
| Moved on, as if reluctantly it bare | |
| The young, unwearied form to that cold couch, | |
| Which age and sorrow render sweet to man. | 5 |
| —There seem’d a sadness in the humid air, | |
| Lifting the long grass from those verdant mounds | |
| Where slumber multitudes.— | |
| —There was a train | |
| Of young, fair females, with their brows of bloom, | 10 |
| And shining tresses. Arm in arm they came, | |
| And stood upon the brink of that dark pit, | |
| In pensive beauty, waiting the approach | |
| Of their companion. She was wont to fly, | |
| And meet them, as the gay bird meets the spring, | 15 |
| Brushing the dew-drop from the morning flowers, | |
| And breathing mirth and gladness. Now she came | |
| With movements fashion’d to the deep-toned bell:— | |
| She came with mourning sire, and sorrowing friend, | |
| And tears of those who at her side were nursed | 20 |
| By the same mother. | |
| Ah! and one was there, | |
| Who, ere the fading of the summer rose, | |
| Had hoped to greet her as his bride. But death | |
| Arose between them. The pale lover watch’d | 25 |
| So close her journey through the shadowy vale, | |
| That almost to his heart, the ice of death | |
| Enter’d from hers. There was a brilliant flush | |
| Of youth about her,—and her kindling eye | |
| Pour’d such unearthly light, that hope would hang | 30 |
| Even on the archer’s arrow, while it dropp’d | |
| Deep poison. Many a restless night she toil’d | |
| For that slight breath which held her from the tomb, | |
| Still wasting like a snow-wreath, which the sun | |
| Marks for his own, on some cool mountain’s breast, | 35 |
| Yet spares, and tinges long with rosy light. | |
| ——Oft o’er the musings of her silent couch, | |
| Came visions of that matron form which bent | |
| With nursing tenderness, to soothe and bless | |
| Her cradle dream: and her emaciate hand | 40 |
| In trembling prayer she raised—that He who saved | |
| The sainted mother, would redeem the child. | |
| Was the orison lost?—Whence then that peace | |
| So dove-like, settling o’er a soul that loved | |
| Earth and its pleasures?—Whence that angel smile | 45 |
| With which the allurements of a world so dear | |
| Were counted and resign’d? that eloquence | |
| So fondly urging those whose hearts were full | |
| Of sublunary happiness to seek | |
| A better portion? Whence that voice of joy, | 50 |
| Which from the marble lip in life’s last strife | |
| Burst forth, to hail her everlasting home? | |
| —Cold reasoners! be convinced. And when ye stand | |
| Where that fair brow, and those unfrosted locks | |
| Return to dust,—where the young sleeper waits | 55 |
| The resurrection morn,—Oh! lift the heart | |
| In praise to Him, who gave the victory. | |
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