Voice of the tomb! A thousand hearts thy awful notes have stirr'd, "Man, thou must die!" So, prophet-like, would seem the fearful knell Stern tolls thy chime; The funeral herald of the warrior brave, WHERE IS MY GRAVE? WHERE is my grave? Mid the silent dead Of the churchyard throng shall I lay my head? Shall I sleep in peace, amid those who erst, Where is my grave? In the vasty deep, Far from their loved and their native shore; Where is my grave? Are its dark folds spread Where is my grave? 'Neath some foreign sky Where is my grave? In the burning sand Shall I sleep, when my toil and my labour are o’er, With no record to tell, save the cross by my side, Of what faith I had preach'd, in what hope I had died? Where is my grave? It matters not where! A WRITTEN IN A GRAVE-YARD. [BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.] SWEET and soothing influence breathes around The dwellings of the dead. Here on this spot, Where countless generations sleep forgot, Up from the marble tomb and grassy mound There cometh on my ear a peaceful sound, That bids me be contented with my lot, And suffer calmly. Oh! when passions hot, When rage or envy doth my bosom wound; Or wild designs-a fair deceiving train— Wreathed in their flowery fetters me enslave; Or keen misfortune's arrowy tempests roll Full on my naked head.-Oh! then again May those still, peaceful accents of the grave, Arise, like slumbering music on my soul. THE CHURCHYARD. [WORDSWORTH.] HIS file of Infants; some that never breathed, THIS And the besprinkled Nursling, unrequired Till he begins to smile upon the breast Of Infancy first blooms upon his cheek, The thinking, thoughtless School-boy, the bold Youth Are opening round her; those of middle age And gentle "Nature grieved that One should die." FUNERAL DIRGE. [REV. THOMAS DALE. DEAR as thou wert, and justly dear, We will not weep for thee: One thought shall check the starting tear, And thus shall Faith's consoling power The tears of love restrain; Oh! who that saw thy parting hour, Could wish thee here again? Triumphant in thy closing eye, Joy breathed in thine expiring sigh, Oh! may such grace on me be shed, THE ETERNAL SHORE. [BLACKWOOD'S MAGAZINE.] THE lake lay hid in mist, and to the sand Came sparkling on, in many a gladsome band, For on that dim and melancholy strand, So hurry we right onwards thoughtlessly, Where, like the worthless billows in their glee, The first faint touch unable to withstand, We melt at once into eternity. Thou who weighest the waters in thine hand, My awe-struck spirit puts her trust in thee. |