Classic Poem

This is the land of Tombs, and soulless clay!
No mimic-joy, gay scene, nor revel here;
Death's withering glance has banished these away,
And left their memory nothing but a tear.
Each stately tree which waves its aged head,
At morning o'er these mouldering relics weeps,
And silence, in the chambers of the dead.
At midnight melancholy vigil keeps.

Here sacred Awe sits on his gloomy throne,
And the same reptile feasts on friend and foe, —
Here bosoms which once wept for spirits gone,
Have, in their turn, received the tears of wo.
Above their heads, these monumental stones
Speak solemn truths to each reflecting mind,
And say in fancied soft Seraphic tones, —
" We once were as thou art, with heart as kind. "

Here fathers — mothers — sisters — brothers lie, —
The old — the young — the sombre, — and the gay —
The rich — the poor of ages long gone by,
Whate'er they were — they're nothing now but clay: —
Clay! cold, cold clay! — dust — ashes — nothing more!
All are made equal in this vale of death,
And what they did most fond in life adore,
They have relinquished with their latest breath.

That Tomb on which I cast a doleful eye,
Has recently received a noble guest;
Even now his Epitaph is a sad sigh —
A stifled sigh, within a spouse's breast.
Cold is the couch where peacefully he lies —
Dull is that narrow ever-silent hall;
No sweet-toned voice — no brilliant beaming eyes —
Nor sound can charm — his ear is deaf to all.

Oh Death! thou art a render of the heart! —
A fearless unrelenting tyrant grim!
When wilt thou lay aside thy fatal dart,
And cease to make the eye of pleasure dim? —
When will affection's soul-consuming sighs
Melt thy compassion — change thy haggard mind?
Will ruined hope — will Orphan's wretched cries,
Make thee resign thine office so unkind?

Ah, no! — Time cannot check thy actions dread, —
For thou shalt live till mankind cease to be;
'Tis when all things that breathed on earth are dead,
Thou shalt be crushed into eternity!
Would thou hadst spared him but so lately slain!
And glided on, — thou'dst saved a thousand sighs —
A nameless grief — an all-enduring pain —
The overflowing of a household's eyes.

But, why remonstrate thus, my pensive Muse!
Since Sorrow's chalice has been swallowed up,
And Contemplation sad, can but infuse
Some gally dregs in Consolation's cup.
So fare-thee-well! lone land of soulless clay!
No mimic-joy, gay scene, nor revel here;
Death's withering glance has banished these away,
And left their memory nothing save a tear.