Classic Poem

Sometimes, when vesper sparrows flit,
And trill their tranquil even-song,
Within a peaceful place I sit
And muse, the mounded graves among.
I know—nor brings the thought a sigh—
That here my outgrown frame must lie;
Nor would I choose a happier lot
Than here to lie, my life forgot,
And let the soothing silence rest
The old-time tumult of my breast.

The summer's heat is tempered here,
Nor seems the winter's breath severe:
Here every choicest shrub and tree
May bud and bloom luxuriantly:
Here singing birds of every kind
Secluded sanctuary find;
With jargoning the air they fill,
With love notes sweet or whistling shrill,
For here no ruthless sportsmen come,
Nor noisy troops of impish boys
May violate each hidden home
And fright the parents from their joys,
Till, fretted by domestic cares,
They lose their songs and sportive airs;
But quiet mourners bringing wreaths
Move on with such a reverent tread,
That naked nestlings, 'mid the leaves,
May boldly stretch each callow head,
And peer above the crowded bed;
And anxious mothers scarce will fly
When such soft footsteps pass them by.

When once, with sauntering step and slow,
I loitered here in pensive mood,
Content with tranquil solitude,
And with my quiet thoughts content,
Anon I raised my eyes, and lo!
A dove upon a monument
Stood for a moment motionless,
And seemed the sacred spot to bless.

She knew no cause for fear of me
To mar her calm security,

But brooded there a little space
Outlined against the evening's gray;
Then bending with a gentle grace
Spread her soft wings and passed away.

'T is well, I thought, this brooding dove,
Emblem of heavenly peace and love,
Should make, where these tired sleepers rest,
In this still spot, her sheltered nest.