Classic Poem

It was a beautiful day in autumn, when the mellow sun shed his
subduing rays Over the face of decaying nature, that we entered the
elegant carriage of an esteemed friend, and pursued our way towards
Mount Auburn, that quiet resting place of the dead.

As we pursued our way from East Boston, the water in the harbor,
whitened with many a sail, sparkled in the morning sun, and glittered
like ten thousand diamonds.

It was Saturday, busy, bustling Saturday, when all the world seemed
hurrying on as if to make amends for any deficiency in the other days
of the week.

The white sea-gulls were floating through the air, often stooping as
if to dip their wings in the ocean waves, that murmured gently upon
the winding shore.

There was scarce a cloud to be seen in the sky, and the calmness of
nature whispered peace to the weary spirit.

As we crossed the ferry and entered the city, and witnessed the moving
tide of human life that was surging through the city mart jostling
against each other in their eager chase; and as we looked out upon the
motly group, human life was to be seen in almost all its forms.

Wealth hung out his golden trappings, and rolled by in all the
splendor of ease and luxury The children of poverty trudged on in
tattered garments, stung by pinching want, bearing heavy burdens upon
their heads, and weighed down by oppression.

These scenes awoke many reflections in the mind, and presented the
contrast of life.

Passing through the city with its tumults and its changes, we pursued
our way through Cambridge to the Cemetery.

The scenery was beautiful, and as we passed the elm tree where
Washington stood to give command to his army, how many associations
rushed upon the mind, filling it with remembrances of our country's
early struggles.

We entered the quiet shades "where rest the dead," sleeping beneath
the sober shadows of the forest trees that were scattering now and
then a withered leaf upon the grassy mounds that lay at their feet.
Here still, even here too, is the same contrast so visible in the
moving, active life of the city.

Wealth here has the splendid monument, embellished with all the
sculptor's art, while the poor sleep as sweetly beneath the simple
sod.

Our first visit was to the Chapel. You are struck upon your entrance
with the hollow sounds that reverberate at every footfall, reminding
one of the emptiness of all earthly things.

There was a coffin within the paling, covered with a black pall,
speaking to us of death and decay; but as we raised our eyes to the
stained glass windows, through which the autumnal sun was pouring his
mellow rays, and casting such a subdued and peculiar light upon all
things in the Chapel, and saw the heavenly expression of the angels as
they took their upward flight, the soul seemed big with immortality,
and the Christian's hope teeming with a better life, was cheering
to it, lifting it up till the things of earth looked dim, distant,
shadowy.

The beautiful statue, too, touched so nicely by the hand of art, as to
look like breathing marble, points the beholder upward to the skies.
This Chapel, standing as it does at the entrance of the Cemetery,
is well calculated to solemnize, the mind, and prepare it for the
contemplations of the surrounding scene.

As we left its quiet retreat and pursued our onward way, sad thoughts
came stealing over the mind, as we reflected how many aching hearts
and tearful eyes had passed over that road to deposit the dearly
loved, and lost in their last resting places.

How proper it seems that a navigator should stand at the entrance to
pilot the way, and we can but think Spurzheim is taking his scientific
observations, as his bust stands as though looking upon the passers by
as they pursue their way to the city of the dead.

We passed on our way through the winding avenues, presenting their
striking and varied emblems, speaking so forcibly to the mind. The
white dove with open beak and half spread wing; the harp with
the broken string, and the broken column, are all beautiful and
significant representations, preaching loudly for the silent dust that
slumbers beneath them.

As we ascended to the tower, we passed the yard enclosed with the
beautiful bronze fence. Looking from the tower you witnessed life with
its struggles, its comforts and luxuries; but the graves beneath us
say, "we must leave all, and come and make our beds with them."

How striking is the anxious expression of the faithful dog, keeping
patient watch over the grave of his young master, through summer's
sultry heat, and winter's pinching cold, never betraying his trust.
How beautiful, and yet how simple is the touching inscriptions,
"My Father," "My Mother." Neither name or age are mentioned to the
stranger, yet what a volume is spoken directly to the heart. The white
lambs reposing upon the grassy mounds represent the innocence that
slumbers beneath.

Many little tokens are scattered round here and there, as mementoes of
fond affection. As we gazed upon the fresh boquets, wet with the dew
of night, we felt that love lingered around those places, and the
tears of affection often fell there.

The flowers, beautiful though they are, either at the tomb or the
bridal, give us no name or trace of former days, but lay scattered
round in rich profusion, telling us of love and affection that cannot
perish, because they are amaranthine flowers that have their root in
the mind, and bear the impress of immortality; and as we gaze upon the
beautiful, either in nature or art, it becomes daguerreotyped upon the
soul, and thus lives forever, coming up at the touch of memory's wand,
with all the vividness of a first impression.

The forest trees standing in solemn grandeur, the winding avenues,
the sloping hills, the deep dells, with the placid waters sleeping in
their bosoms, with the bright red flowers contrasting with the white
polished marble monuments, all conspire to render the place one
of extreme beauty and interest. But when we compare this with the
descriptions we have read of Westminster Abbey, covered with the
mouldering dust of ages, as generation after generation has been added
to it, we can picture to the imagination the change passing years
will make here. The silent hand of time will steal by degrees,
the freshness and beauty from the polished marble, effacing their
beauties, one by one, 'till all are obliterated, and green mould
and moss occupy their places, and the monument shall cease to be a
memorial.

Such is time with its changes, and yet the thoughtless race of man
pass on, unheeding the destiny that awaits them, slow to learn the
lessons these solemn places are calculated to teach.

The birds as they sang in the branches, seemed breathing a dirge-like
melody over the departed, and even their thrilling notes sounded
solemn in this sacred place, so strong is the power of association
over the human mind.

After spending some hours in this shady place, and drinking in its
beauties and its solemnities, 'till the mind became softened and
subdued by surrounding influences, we left it, bearing in the memory
all the rich variety of landscape, we had been gazing on.

We visited Fresh Pond, where so many go for amusement. Thus it is
ever, the living sport upon the very graves of the departed. The
scenery here, though beautiful and picturesque, has not the touching
influences of the Cemetery, and so we lingered not there, but returned
again to the busy city to contrast its bustle, and its stir, with the
deep quiet and silent shades of Mount Auburn.