GREEN-WOOD CEMETERY.
[To the untiring exertions of Major D. B. Douglass, Messrs. Joseph A. Perry, Henry E. Pierrepont, Gerrit G. Van Wagenen, and a few other liberal minded gentlemen, the public are indebted for the design and completion of this beautiful place of repose for the dead. It is anticipated that ten miles of avenue will be completed during the coming summer, and when the whole is laid out, according to the proposed plan, that there will be fifteen miles of picturesque road within its precincts. Part of the battle of Long Island in the Revolution was fought upon its grounds, and it is intended at no distant day, to remove the remains of those that perished in the Prison Ships to the Cemetery, where they will sleep undisturbed beneath an appropriate monument. The views from Mount Washington, and other eminences, within its precincts, embrace the entire bay and harbour of New-York, with their islands and forts: the cities of New-York and Brooklyn; the shores of the North and East Rivers; New-Jersey, Staten Island, the Quarantine; unnumbered towns and villages sprinkled over the wide expanse of the surrounding country, and the margin of the broad Atlantic, from Sandy Hook, to a distance far beyond the Rockaway Pavilion. The fine old forest which covers the greater part of the grounds, shrouding and almost concealing from sight, several beautiful lakes and sheets of water suggested the name, with which it has been consecrated, the Green-Wood Cemetery.]
[To the untiring exertions of Major D. B. Douglass, Messrs. Joseph A. Perry, Henry E. Pierrepont, Gerrit G. Van Wagenen, and a few other liberal minded gentlemen, the public are indebted for the design and completion of this beautiful place of repose for the dead. It is anticipated that ten miles of avenue will be completed during the coming summer, and when the whole is laid out, according to the proposed plan, that there will be fifteen miles of picturesque road within its precincts. Part of the battle of Long Island in the Revolution was fought upon its grounds, and it is intended at no distant day, to remove the remains of those that perished in the Prison Ships to the Cemetery, where they will sleep undisturbed beneath an appropriate monument. The views from Mount Washington, and other eminences, within its precincts, embrace the entire bay and harbour of New-York, with their islands and forts: the cities of New-York and Brooklyn; the shores of the North and East Rivers; New-Jersey, Staten Island, the Quarantine; unnumbered towns and villages sprinkled over the wide expanse of the surrounding country, and the margin of the broad Atlantic, from Sandy Hook, to a distance far beyond the Rockaway Pavilion. The fine old forest which covers the greater part of the grounds, shrouding and almost concealing from sight, several beautiful lakes and sheets of water suggested the name, with which it has been consecrated, the Green-Wood Cemetery.]
Where, then, is death!—and my own voice startled me from my reverie as, leaning on my saddle-bowon the summit of Mount Washington in the Greenwood Cemetery, I asked—Where, then, is death!The golden sun of a delicious summer’s afternoon was streaming o’er the undulating hills of Staten Island lighting more brilliantly the snow-white villas and emerald lawns:—the Lazaretto—its fleet gay with the flags of all the nations, was nestling like a fairy city at its feet:—the noble bay before me was one great polished mirror—motionless vessels with white sails and drooping pennants, resting on its surface, like souls upon the ocean of Eternity, and every thing around was bright and still and beautiful as I asked myself the question—Where, then, is death!
The islands with their military works lay calm and motionless upon the waters—the grim artillery, like sleeping tigers crouched upon the ramparts and the castle’s walls—but the glistening of the sentry’s polished musket, and the sudden clamorous roll of drums showed me, that—not there was death.
I turned.—The great fierce city extending as far as eye could reach—the sky fretted with her turrets and her spires—her thousand smokes rising and mingling with the o’erhanging-clouds;—as she rose above her bed of waters, with hoarse continuous roar, cried to me—“Look not here, not here—for death!” Her sister city, with her towers and cupolas—her grassy esplanades surmounted with verdant trees and far extending colonnades embowered in shrubbery,—fromher high terraced walls, re-echoed the hollow roar—“Not here for death!”
The island lay extended far before me—its farms and towns—its modest spires—its granaries—its verdant meadows—its rich cultivated fields—its woods—its lawns—all wrapped in silence, but still its whisper softly reached me—“Not here—not here—is death!”—E’en the great distant ocean, closed only from my view by the far-reaching horizon, in sullen continuous murmurs moaned—“Not here is death!”
Where, then, I cried—where, then, is death?I looked above me, and the blue vault hung pure and motionless—light fleecy clouds like angels on their journeys, alone resting on its cerulean tint,—around, the evening breeze played calm and gently,—and beneath the flowers and leaves were quivering with delight, while the incessant hum of insect life, arising from the earth with ceaseless voice, still cried—“No—no—not here is death!”
Ah! said I, this beautiful world shall be forever, and there is—there is no death—but even as I spoke, a warning voice struck with deep solemnity upon my startled ear,—“Man that is born of woman, hath but a short time to live, and is full of misery. He cometh up, and is cut down like a flower; he fleeth as it were a shadow, and never continueth in one stay.”—And as I turned, the funeral procession—its minister and its mourners passed onward in their journey with the silent dead.
I looked after the retiring group, and again from beyond the coppice which intervened, heard rising in the same deep solemn tones,—“Write, from henceforth, blessed are the dead who die in the Lord; even so saith the spirit, for they rest from their labours,”—and my soul cowered within itself like a guilty thing, as it said—Amen.
I looked again upon the scene before me and sighed,—e’en such is human reason. That gorgeous sun shall set—the gay villas and verdant lawns,—the crowded shipping,—the beautiful bay with all that rest upon its bosom, shall soon be wrapt in darkness,—the gleaming watch-light disappear from yon tall battlement, as the bugle sounds its warning note,—the great fierce city be stilled in silence, while the beating hearts within her midnight shroud, like seconds, answer her tolling bells upon the dial of eternity,—and the insect myriads—the flowers and leaves—ay!—the great heavens themselves, shall from the darkness cry—“This is the portraiture of death!”—for the darkness and the silence are all that man can realize of death.
The hardy Northman with trembling finger points to the mouldering frame work of humanity, and shudders as he cries—“Lo! there is death!”—and the polished Greek smiles delightedly on the faultless statue of the lovely woman with the infant sleeping on her breast, as he also cries—“Lo! there is death!”—yet both alike with reverence do lay their final offering beforehis gloomy shrine.—The squalid Esquimaux scoops out the cavern in the never melting snows, for the frozen form whose conflicts with the grizzly bear and shuddering cold are done—and the mild Hindoo, with affection, feeds the funeral pyre, and as the fragrant column does arise, cries—“Soul of my brother—immortal soul, ascend!”—The red man, in the far distant prairie’s lonely wilds, pillows the head of the warrior-chief upon his slain desert steed within its mound, while the bronzed pioneer, throwing aside his axe and rifle, hastily dashes away the tear as he inhumes beneath its flowery bed his scar-marked comrade’s form.
The secluded village hamlet, with pious care, within the quiet grove, encloses a resting-place for its silent few, disappearing at long intervals;—and here those great living cities have chosen this silent city for their dead, falling like the forest leaves in autumn.
For the great army, who must ere long, march forth to ground their arms before the grim and ghastly Conqueror, ’twere difficult to find more beautiful and lovely resting place. E’en the sad mourner lingers as he beholds its broad and lovely lawns, stretched out in calm serenity before him;—its sylvan waters in their glassy stillness; its antique elms, arching with extended branches the long secluded lanes; its deep romantic glens; its rolling mounds, and all its varied scenery, ere with a softened sadness he turns him to his desolate and melancholy home. Oh! spirits ofour departed ones! We know that you have gone forth from your human habitations, and that we shall behold your loved forms no more forever. Oh! therefore will we lay your deserted temples within this consecrated ground, and, in imagination, fondly see you sleeping still in tranquillity beneath its green and silent sward.
But lo! where upon the broad and verdant lawn, the loose clods and dark black mould heaped carelessly aside, the narrow pit awaits, ere it close again from light, its tenant in his dark and narrow house. The sorrowing group collect around, and the pall slowly drawn aside, one moment more exhibits to the loved ones, the pallid countenance of him about to be hidden from their sight forever. The weeping widow, in her dark habiliments, leans upon the arm of the stern, sad brother, her little ones clinging to her raiment in mingled awe and admiration of the scene before them. “Ashes to ashes”—how she writhes in anguish, as the heavy clods fall with hollow unpitying jar upon the coffin lid—how like a lifeless thing she hangs upon the supporting arm in which her countenance is buried in agony unutterable; and see the little ones, their faces streaming with wondering tears, clasping her hands; how in happy ignorance, they innocently, with fond endearing names, still call upon him to arise.
But the narrow grave is filled—the mourninggroup have gone—the evening shadows fall—the declining sun sinks beneath his gorgeous bed in the horizon, and in the thickening twilight, the dead lies in his mound—alone. The night advances—the stars arise, and the joyous constellations roll high onward in their majestic journeys in the o’erhanging heavens—but beneath—the tenant of the fresh filled grave, lies motionless and still. The morning sun appears, the dew, like diamonds, glitters on every leaf and blade of grass—the birds joyously carol, and the merry lark, upon the very mound itself, sends forth his cheerful note—but all is hushed, in silence, to the tenant who in his unbroken slumber sleeps within. The Autumn comes, and the falling leaves whirl withered from the tree tops, and rustle in the wind—the Winter, and the smooth broad plain lies covered with its pure and spotless cloak of driven snow, and the lowly mound is hid from sight, and shows not, in the broad midday sun, nor e’en at midnight, when the silver moon sailing onwards in her chaste journey turns the icicles into glittering gems, on the o’erhanging branches as they bend protectingly towards it. The Spring breathes warmly, and the little mound lies green again—and now the mother bending o’er it, lifts the rose and twines the myrtle, while the little ones in joyous glee from the surrounding meadows, bring the wild flowers and scatter them in unison uponits borders. Oh! then!—were consciousness within—then would the glad tenant smile.
But let him, whose tears as yet fall not for any dear one beneath its sod, ascend again with me the Mount, and with retrospective gaze behold the living drama, which has passed before it. The great world around—the stage—lies still the same; but the actors, all—all have passed onwards to their final rest. Into the still gleaming past bend your attentive gaze. Lo, the features of the scenery are still the same—the bay’s unruffled bosom, and the islands; but no sail now floats upon its surface, no gilded spires in the distance loom, nor does the busy hum of man reach us, as listening we stand—nought we see but the far forest covering the main and islands, even to the waters. The coward wolf howls in yon distant glen—the partridge drums upon the tree tops—and the graceful deer e’en at our sides browses in conscious safety. Yon light dot moving upon the water?—’tis the painted Indian paddling his canoe. Yon smoke curling on the shore beneath us?—it is the Indian’s wigwam—The joyous laugh arising among the trees? It is his squaw and black-eyed children—the Indian reigns the lord—reigns free and uncontrolled.
But look again upon the waters floats a huge and clumsy galliot—its gay and gaudy streamers flaunting in the breeze; how the poor savages congregated on yonder point, gaze in wonder as it passes—’tis the GreatSpirit, and the quaint figure with the plumed hat, and scarlet hose glistening with countless buttons, on its poop—some demi-god!—and as she onward moves, behold the weather-worn seamen’s faces in her rigging, how anxiously they return the gaze.—The forest children muster courage—they follow in their light canoes.—The galliot nears the Manahattoes—they ascend her sides—hawks, bells and rings, and beads, and the hot strong drink are theirs;—their land—it is the white man’s.—See with what confidence he ensconces himself upon the island’s borders—in his grasp, he has the fish—the furs—the game—the poor confiding Indian gives him all—and—behold the embryo city’s fixed!
But see!—Is that the Dutch boor’s cabin at our feet?—Is that the Indian seated on the threshold, while the Dutchman lolls lazily within!—Where—where then is the Indian’s wigwam?—gone!
Look up again—a stately fleet moves o’er the bay, in line of battle drawn; the military music loudly sounds—dark cannon frown from within the gaping ports, and crews with lighted matches stand prepared—they near the Manahattoes, and—and—the Orange flag descends—the Dragon and St. George floats from the flag-staff o’er the little town. Who is the fair-haired man that drinks with the Dutchman at his cottage door, while the poor Indian stands submissively aside?—“It is theBriton.”—I hear the laugh of youth—sure ’tis the Indian’s black eyed brood?—“’Tis the Englishman’s yellow haired, blue eyed children.”—Alas! alas! poor forest wanderer—nor squaw—nor child—nor wigwam, shall here be more for thee. Farewell—farewell.
The little town swells to a goodly city—the forests fall around—the farms stretch out their borders—wains creak and groan with harvest wealth—lordly shipping floats on the rivers—the fair haired race increase—roads mark the country—and the deer and game, scared, fly the haunts of men.—Hah!—the same flag floats not at the Manahattoes!—now, ’tis Stars and Stripes—See!—crowding across the river men in dark masses—cannon—muniments of war—in boats—on rafts—in desperate haste. Trenches and ramparts creep like serpents on the earth—horsemen scour the country—divisions—regiments—take position, and stalwart yeomen hurrying forward, join in the ranks of Liberty!—Hear! hear the wild confusion—the jar of wheels—the harsh shrill shriek of trumpets and the incessant roll of drums—the rattling musketry—the sudden blaze and boom of cannon—it is the roar of battle—it is the battle field!—Hear! hear the distant cry—“St. George and merry England.”—“Our Country and Liberty.”—Ah! o’er this very ground, the conflict passes—See! the vengeful Briton prostrate falls beneath the deadly rifle—while the yeomen masses fade beneath the howling cannon shot—andhark! how from amid the sulphurous cloud the wild “hurrah” drowns e’en the dread artillery.
The smoke clouds lazily creep from off the surface—the battle’s o’er and the red-cross banner floats again upon the island of Manahattoes.—And now again—the Stripes and Stars stream gently in the breeze.
The past is gone—the future stands before us. Ay! here upon this very spot, once rife with death, yonder cities shall lay their slain for centuries to come—their slain, falling in the awful contest with the stern warrior, against whom human strength is nought, and human conflict vain. Years shall sweep on in steady tide, and these broad fields be whitened with countless sepulchres—the mounds, covered with graves where affection still shall plant the flower and trail the vine—in the deep valleys, and romantic glens to receive their ne’er returning tenants; the sculptured vaults still shall roll ope their marble fronts—beneath the massive pyramid’s firm-fixed base, the Martyrs of the Prisons find their final resting-place—and on this spot the stately column shooting high in air, to future generations tell, the bloody story of yon battle-field.
All here shall rest;—the old man—his silver hairs in quiet, and the wailing babe in sweet repose—the strong from fierce conflict with fiery disease, and bowing submissively, the poor pallid invalid—the old—theyoung—the strong—the beautiful—all—here shall rest in deep and motionless repose.
Oh! Being!—Infinite and Glorious—Unseen—shrouded from our vision in the vast and awful mists of immeasurable Eternity—Creator—throned in splendour inconceivable, mid millions and countless myriads of worlds, which still rushing into being at thy thought, course their majestic circles, chiming in obedient grandeur glorious hymns of praise—God of Wisdom,—thou that hast caused the ethereal spark to momentarily light frail tenements of clay,—grant, that in the terrors of the awful Judgment, they may meet the splendours of the opening heavens with steadfast gaze, and relying on the Redeemer’s mediation, in boundless ecstacy, still cry—Where—Where then is Death!