Classic Poem

In this lone unfrequented spot —
Amongst these dwellings of the dead,
Does spring her beauteous charms display,
And here her fragrant odours shed.

She hangs the blossoms on the trees
Which o'er the mould'ring ashes wave;
She paints the leaves with vivid green,
And strews with flowers the lowly grave.

But ah! to those who slumber here,
The simple flowers which deck the plain,
The verdant foliage of the trees,
And golden blossoms, blow in vain.

And ye gay tenants of the grove,
Sweet minstrels of the early year,
In vain ye pour the tuneful strain,
For they, alas! can never hear.

Ye dwellers in these lowly cells,
When wintry tempests round you sweep,
In death's oblivious slumbers wrapp'd,
Ah! how securely then you sleep —

Tho' long and loud the thunder rolls
Around the dark and troubled sky,
And bursting from the fiery cloud,
The forked light'ning flashes by;

Should whirlwinds rend the rooted trees,
And earthquakes rock the trembling ground,
The noise of elemental strife,
Can never break your rest profound.

Tho' war's dread tempest loudly roars,
And rages round th' affrighted world;
Tho' nations tremble at the sound,
And monarchs from their thrones be hurl'd,

You know it not — for quiet peace
Within the grave for ever reigns;
No hostile sounds can e'er invade
The silence of death's still domains.

The anxious never ceasing cares,
Invaders of the human breast;
Doubt, and solicitude, and fear,
Here slumber in perpetual rest.

No more shall anguish rend the heart,
Or sink the spirit in despair,
No more the mind shall droop beneath
Stern disappointment's frown severe:

O'er scenes of complicated woe,
No more the feeling heart shall grieve,
Nor breathe the unavailing sigh,
For mis'ries which it can't relieve.

Mourn not, ye living, for the dead,
Their day of toil and trouble o'er,
Sweet are their slumbers in the grave,
And they awake to grief no more.