Classic Poem

The graveyard by the river lies,
In the heart of the old hills;
Over the graves the sycamore
A honey breath distils,
And from its top the mountain thrush
Breaks out in sudden thrills.

About the graves the river runs
With a low monotonous fall,
Like murmur in a mourner's heart
Who sheds no tear at all,
But ever maketh to herself
A moan continual.

It was at crimson sunset time
I sat in that quiet place,
And watch'd the shadows wrap the hill
From purple height, to base,
Like sorrow darkening silently
A happy human face.

The yellow furze in lines of light
Stood out on its bosom cold,
As if the gilded sunset clouds
When down the west they roll'd
Had dropp'd upon the mountain side
A portion of their gold.

I sat beside a mother's grave
Who had travail'd sore, and died —
A sun that set when into Heaven
One little star did glide —
A rose amid its opening buds
Cut off in summer's pride.

I thought of her whom Jacob toil'd
In the olden time to win,
Who pass'd away before her arm
Had clasp'd her Benjamin,
Where Bethel's haunted plains are pass'd
And Ephrath's fields begin.

She died, when joy's full measure throbb'd
Like a strong pulse in her breast —
When once again of baby lips
Her bosom should be press'd,
And yet another living son
Sink on her heart to rest.

O, lesson meet for us to learn,
With our dreams of earthly joy —
Who build our golden hopes so high,
And still without alloy,
And then they fade, — or we are gone
Like Rachel from her boy!

There is one hope that faileth not,
For it triumphs o'er the grave;
The Patriarch saw it dimly bright
Beyond his burial cave,
I read it on that Christian tomb —
The life that Jesus gave!