Cethegus.Thou hast slept, Marius.
Marius.And thou hast watched my sleep.
Ah! truest friend and follower, not in vain;
Dismiss that cloudy trouble from thy brows,
The doubts that vex thy heart; for know that Fate
Still has me in its keeping, and decrees
Yet other deeds and conquests at my hand,
And still one glorious triumph. I shall be
Once more, in Rome, a Consul! When a child,
Sporting, on summer slopes, beneath old hills,
Seven infant eagles, from a passing cloud,
Dropt clustering in my lap. The Augurs thence
Gave me seven times the Roman Consulate.
Cethegus.Thou hast had it six.
Marius.One other yet remains.
Cethegus.Alas! the Fates but mock thee with a dream;
For know that, while thou sleptst, our treacherous bark
Loosed sail, and left the shores.
Marius.Gone!
Cethegus.Clean from sight.
Marius.Ha! ha! Now thank the gods that watch my sleep,
And save me when the might of man would fail!
Courage, my friend, that vessel speeds to wreck,
Racked on some lurking rock beneath the wave,
Or foundering in the tempest. We are safe!
Cethegus.Thou’rt confident.
Marius.As Fate and Hope can make me.
Yet look! there is an omen. We must fly
This place for other refuge. See the strife
Betwixt these deadly scorpions on the sands.
Cethegus.What read’st thou in this omen?
Marius.Sylla’s soldiers
Are fast upon our heels. Get to the shore;
Some fisher’s boat will help us from the land,
And bear us whither the directing fates
Decree for refuge—safely o’er the seas
That gulphed our treacherous vessel.
Cethegus.Be it so!
I follow thee whatever be thy fate!
Marius.Hark! dost thou hear?
Cethegus.What sound?
Marius.The tramp of horse;
And lo! the boat awaits us by the shore!
——
Marius, alone, seated among the Ruins of Carthage.
Alone, but not a captive—not o’ercome
By any fate, and reckless of its doom,
Even midst the ruins by his own arm made,
There sits the Exile, lone, but unafraid!
What mighty thoughts, that will not be repressed,
Warm his wild mood, and swell his laboring breast;
What glorious memories of the immortal strife,
Which gave him fame, and took from Carthage life;
That giant-like, sea rival of his own
Proud realm, still challenging the sway and throne;
Doomed in long conflict, through experience dread,
To bend the neck at last, to bow the head;
To feel his foot upon her lordly brow,
And yield to him who shares her ruins now.
How o’er his soul, with passion still that gushed,
The wondrous past with all its memories rushed;
These ruins made his monument. They told
Of wisest strategy, adventure bold.
Dread fields of strife—an issue doubtful long,
That tried his genius, and approved it strong;
That left him robed in conquest, and supreme,
His country’s boast, his deeds her brightest theme;
Written in brass and marble—sung in strains
That warm the blood to dances in the veins;
That make young hearts with wild ambition thrill,
And crown the spirit with achieving will;
That seem eternal in the deeds they show,
And waken echoes that survive below;
Brood o’er the mortal slumbering in the tomb,
And keep his name in song, his works in bloom,
Till envious rivals, hopeless of pursuit,
Join in the homage, who till then were mute;
Catch up the glorious anthem, and unite
To sing the bird they could not match in flight;
Content to honor where they could not shame,
And praise the worth they could not rob of fame.
How, with these memories gathering in his breast,
Of all the labors that denied him rest —
Of all the triumphs that his country bore
To heights of fame she had not won before —
Broods he, the exile from his state and home,
On what awaits thee and himself, O Rome!
Of what thy hate deserves, and his decrees,
Whom thou hast brought unwilling to his knees.
No sad submission yields he to his fate,
So long as solace comes to him from hate,
Or hope from vengeance. In his eyes, ye trace
No single look to recompense disgrace;
With no ambition checked, no passion hushed,
No pride o’erthrown, no fond delusion crushed;
With every fire alive that ever swayed,
His soul as lordly as when most obeyed,
He broods o’er wrongs, forgetful of his own,
And from his heart hears vengeance cry alone.
Fixed on the ruins round him, his dread eye
Glances, as if fastened on his enemy;
His hand is on the fragment of a shrine
That Hate may henceforth deem a thing divine:
Grasped firmly—could the fingers but declare
How dread the oath the soul was heard to swear!
The awful purpose nursed within, denies
Speech to the lips, but lightens up the eyes,
Informs each muscle with the deadliest will,
But till the murderous moment, bids “be still!”
Come read, ye ministers of Fate, the lore
That fills the dark soul of the fiend ye bore;
Reveal the secret purpose that inspires
That deadly mood, and kindles all its fires;
Scan the dread meaning in that viperous glance
Fixed on those ruins in intensest trance,
That nothing speaks to that it still surveys,
And looks within alone with meaning gaze;
Unclose that lip, that rigidly compressed,
Stops the free rush of feeling from the breast;
And on that brow, with seven deep furrows bound,
Write the full record of his thought profound.
What future scene beneath that piercing eye
Depicts the carnage and the victory;
The flashing steel—the shaft in fury sped —
The shrieking victim, and the trampled dead:
Say, what wild sounds have spelled that eager ear,
That stretches wide, the grateful strain to hear;
How many thousands perish in that cry
That fills his bloody sense with melody;
What pleading voices, stifling as they swell,
Declare the vengeance gratified too well?
What lordly neck, beneath that iron tread,
Strangled in utterance, leaves the prayer unsaid?
What horrid scene of triumph and of hate,
Do ye discover to this man of Fate,
Which, while his Fortune mocks the hope he bears,
Consoles his Past, and still his Future cheers?
He hath no speech, save in the ruins round;
But there’s a language, born without a sound,
A voice whose thunders, though unuttered, fly
From the red lightnings of the deep-set eye;
There passion speaks of hate that cannot spare,
Still tearing those who taught him how to tear;
One dream alone delighting his desire —
The dream that finds the fuel for his fire;
Let fancy shape the language for his mood,
And speak the purpose burning in his blood.
——
Marius.“If thou hadst ears, O Carthage! for the voice
That speaks among thy ruins, it would cheer
The spirit that was crushed beneath my heel,
To hear the tongue of thy destroyer swear
To live as thy avenger. I have striven
For Rome against thee, till, in frequent strife,
Thy might was overthrown—thy might as great
As Rome’s in days most palmy—save in this:
Thou hadst no soul as potent in thy service,
As I have been in hers. And thou, and all —
The Gaul, the Goth, the Cimbrian—all the tribes
That swelled the northern torrents, and brought down,
Yearly, the volumed avalanche on Rome,
Have sunk beneath my arm, until secure
She sat aloft in majesty, seven-throned,
And knew or feared no foe. This was my work —
Nor this alone; from the patrician sway,
That used her as the creature of his will,
I plucked her eagles, casting down his power
Beneath plebeian footstep. For long years
Of cruellest oppression and misrule,
I took a merited vengeance on her pride,
Debasing her great sons, that in their fall
Her people might be men. I loved her tribes,
Since they were mine. I made their homes secure;
I raised their free condition into state —
And I am here! These ruins speak for me —
An exile; scarred with honorable wounds,
At seventy years, alone and desolate.
“But the o’er-ruling Deities decree
My triumph. From thy ruins comes a voice
Full of most sweet assurance. Hark! it cries
To me as thy avenger. Thou forgiv’st
My hand the evil it has wrought on thee,
That the same hand, upon thy conqueror’s head
May work like ruin. The atoning Fates
Speak through thy desolation. They declare
That I shall tread the ungrateful city’s streets,
Armed with keen weapon and consuming fire,
And still unglutted rage. My wrath shall sow
The seeds of future ruins in her heart,
So that her fall, if far less swift than thine,
Shall be yet more complete. She shall consume
With more protracted suffering. She shall pass
Through thousand ordeals of the strife and storm,
Each bitterer than the last—each worse than thine —
A dying that shall linger with its pain
Its dread anxieties, its torturing scourge;
A period long as life, with life prolonged,
Only for dire, deserved miseries.
Her state shall fluctuate through successive years,
With now great shows of pride—with arrogance
That goes before destruction—that her fall
May more increase her shame. The future grows —
Drear characters, as written on a wall —
In fiery lines before me; and I read
The rise of thousands who shall follow me,
Each emulous of vengeance fell as mine,
By mine at first begotten. Yet why gaze
In profitless survey of the work of years,
Inevitable to the prescient soul,
And leave our own undone? I hear a voice
Reproaching me that I am slow to vengeance;
I, whom the Fates but spare a few short hours,
That I may open paths to other masters,
For whom they find the scourge. They tutor me
That mine’s a present mission; not for me
To traverse the wide future in pursuit
Of those who shall succeed me in their service,
But to speed onward in the work of terror,
So that no hungering Fate, the victim ready,
Shall be defrauded of its prey. I rise,
Obeying the deep voice that, from these ruins,
Rings on mine ear its purpose. I obey,
And bound to my performance as the lion,
Long crouching in his jungle, who at last
Sees the devoted nigh. The impatient blood
Rounds with red circle all that fills mine eye;
A crimson sea receives me, and I tread
In billows thus incarnadined from nations
That bleed through ages thus at every vein.
Be satisfied, ye Fates! Ye gods, who still
Lark homeless in these ruins that ye once
Made sacred as abodes, and deemed secure,
I take the sword of vengeance that ye proffer,
And swear myself your soldier. I will go,
And with each footstep on some mighty neck,
Shall work your full revenge, nor forfeit mine!
Dost thou not feel my presence, like a cloud,
Before my coming, Rome?[A]Is not my spirit,
That goes abroad in earnest of my purpose,
Upon thy slumbers, City of the Tyrant,
Like the fell hag on breast of midnight sleeper,
That loads him with despair? Alone I come;
But thousands of fell ministers shall crowd
About me with their service—willing creatures
That shall assist me first to work on thee,
And last upon themselves! The daylight fades,
And night belongs to vengeance. I depart,
Carthage, to riot on thy conqueror’s heart.”
Silent once more the ruins—dark the night,
Yet vengeance speeds with unembarrassed flight;
No fears delay, no toils retard the speed
Of that fierce exile, sworn to deadliest deed;
And thou, O Queen of Empires, now secure
Of state that might be peaceful, were it pure,
Too soon thy halls shall echo with the yell
That summons human fiends to works of hell!
Ambition, long unsated, urged by Hate,
Queen of the Nations, speaks thy mournful fate;
Thy valor wasted, and thy might in vain,
Thy virtues sapped to break thy despot’s chain;
Long didst thou rule, in simple courage strong,
The guardian friend of right, the foe to wrong;
Great in thyself, and conscious of the sway
That kept meet progress with the march of day;
That from all nations plucked the achieving arts,
That make sway sov’reign in a people’s hearts;
Proud on thy heights rose forms to worship dear,
There swelled the temple’s crest, the column there,
Each with its chronicle to spell the soul,
And each most precious to the crowning whole;
A world thyself—a wondrous world—that made
The admiring nations silent in thy shade;
Genius and art commingling in thy cause,
And gods presiding o’er thy matchless laws.
But dark the hour impends—the storm is nigh,
And thy proud eagles flaunt no more the sky;
Thou hast not kept thy virtues to the last,
And all thy glories centre in thy past —
Thy safety in thy glories. From beneath
Thy altars swells the midnight cry of death;
The tocsin summons—not to brave the foe,
But to make bare thy bosom to the blow;
From thy own quiver flies the shaft of doom,
And thy own children hollow out thy tomb.
The exulting shouts that mock thee in thy shame,
Were those that led thee once to heights of fame;
The bird that swoops to riot on thy breast,
Is the same eagle that made safe thy nest.
Hark at his shrilly scream! the sleuth-hounds wake,
The bloody thirst which in thy heart they slake;
Thy proud patricians, hunted down, survey
The herds they kept most busy with the prey.
These are the flocks they fostered from their foes,
And these are first to drink the blood that flows.
Wondrous the arts of vengeance, to inspire
The maddened son to prey upon the sire!
Wondrous the skill that fierce plebeian wields
To make this last the bloodiest of his fields.
Vain all thy prayer and struggle—thou art down,
His iron footstep planted on thy crown;
But in thy fate, ’tis something for thy pride,
Thus self-destroyed, thou mighty suicide!
[A]The reader will be reminded by this passage of that noble and solemn speech made by the Ghost of Sylla, at the opening of Ben Johnson’s tragedy of Catiline: “Dost thou not feel me, Rome, etc.”
[A]
The reader will be reminded by this passage of that noble and solemn speech made by the Ghost of Sylla, at the opening of Ben Johnson’s tragedy of Catiline: “Dost thou not feel me, Rome, etc.”
SONG.—THE CONGRATULATION.
Give wings to thy wildest hopes,For thy destiny now is known,And even a lover’s dreamsCould scarcely thus high have flown.Give wings to thy wildest dreams—The loved one now is thine,Nor moveth there on the earthA being so like divine.A form so noble and free,A heart so high and so true;Oh! thine is as bright a starAs gleams in yon sky of blue.Then give to thy glad thoughts wings,Thy raptures no more conceal,For to thee every coming hourCan only new joys reveal.Wilfred.
Give wings to thy wildest hopes,For thy destiny now is known,And even a lover’s dreamsCould scarcely thus high have flown.Give wings to thy wildest dreams—The loved one now is thine,Nor moveth there on the earthA being so like divine.A form so noble and free,A heart so high and so true;Oh! thine is as bright a starAs gleams in yon sky of blue.Then give to thy glad thoughts wings,Thy raptures no more conceal,For to thee every coming hourCan only new joys reveal.Wilfred.
Give wings to thy wildest hopes,For thy destiny now is known,And even a lover’s dreamsCould scarcely thus high have flown.
Give wings to thy wildest hopes,
For thy destiny now is known,
And even a lover’s dreams
Could scarcely thus high have flown.
Give wings to thy wildest dreams—The loved one now is thine,Nor moveth there on the earthA being so like divine.
Give wings to thy wildest dreams—
The loved one now is thine,
Nor moveth there on the earth
A being so like divine.
A form so noble and free,A heart so high and so true;Oh! thine is as bright a starAs gleams in yon sky of blue.
A form so noble and free,
A heart so high and so true;
Oh! thine is as bright a star
As gleams in yon sky of blue.
Then give to thy glad thoughts wings,Thy raptures no more conceal,For to thee every coming hourCan only new joys reveal.Wilfred.
Then give to thy glad thoughts wings,Thy raptures no more conceal,For to thee every coming hourCan only new joys reveal.Wilfred.
Then give to thy glad thoughts wings,
Thy raptures no more conceal,
For to thee every coming hour
Can only new joys reveal.
Wilfred.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
GEMS FROM MOORE’S IRISH MELODIES.
NO. I.—THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
[SEE ENGRAVING.]
There are two things that never grow old—good poetry and good music. They live in the heart like the memory of a beloved friend. Good poetry is the out-birth of real emotions. It is the language of the affections. When the heart feels deeply its utterance takes the form of poetry; and when it seeks to vary its affections and give them a deeper and more expressive form, it seeks the aid of music. Poetry, in coming into the mind, touches it with a sense of beauty, moves its sympathies, or elevates it into a higher appreciation of the pure and heroic; but when music is married to immortal verse, all becomes more intense and real. How fully this is perceived when we hear some familiar ballad or fine lyric sung with skill and taste. We saw beauties before, but now we feel them.
With Moore’s exquisite Irish Melodies, we have been familiar from childhood as poetry and music united. “The Meeting of the Waters,” “The Last Rose of Summer,” “The Legacy,” “Come Rest in this Bosom,” and a dozen besides that could be named, we think of but to love. Fashionable they are not, because the fashion of this world changeth, and in fashionable assemblages we rarely hear them; but now and then a gentle friend warbles them for us in private—or some one bold enough for an innovation, ventures upon a “Melody” in public. How the old sounds stir the heart! How old associations and old feelings come up from the dim past!
The words of these melodies were all written to old airs, familiar throughout Ireland—native airs born from the hearts of the people, and, like links in a golden chain, binding their hearts together. We need not say how well Moore performed his task. Their popularity, for nearly half a century, would make praise an idle tribute. Before these songs were written, the wildly-beautiful, tender, and often spirit-thrilling melodies of the people found only an imperfect utterance. But, when words in correspondence with the music were given, the whole island broke forth into song as by a single impulse. And, soon Albion took up the strains responsive to her sister Erin, (we wish she had not proved to Erin so unnatural a sister,) and for once, at least, found something to admire and love that was born in the Emerald Island.
A remarkable instance of the power of some of these melodies over the heart is that related of Lucretia Davidson. She was particularly sensitive to music, and there was a song, “Moore’s Farewell to his Harp,” to which she took a great fancy, and which always affected the fine poetical organism of her mind in a peculiar manner. She wished to hear it only in the twilight. Then she would listen to the strain until she became cold, pale, and almost fainting. It was her favorite of all songs, and gave occasion to the verses addressed, in her fifteenth year, to her sister.
It was not the words of this song that alone affected Miss Davidson. Without the melody in which they found a more perfect utterance, she might never have thought of them after the first reading. But the music spoke to her in the heart’s own language, and her spirit felt an intense sympathy.
Of this particular native air, Moore says, it is “one that defies all poetry to do it justice.”
Among the most tender and beautiful of the Irish Melodies is that known as “The Meeting of the Waters,” Maclise’s exquisite illustration of which we give in the present number of Graham. In the summer of 1807 Moore paid a visit to the Vale of Avoca, in the county of Wicklow, where the two rivers Avon and Avoca meet, a most lovely and enchanting spot. This visit suggested the song which has since been so wide a favorite, and which has associated the vale of Avoca with all that is charming and romantic.
“THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.“Yet, itwasnot that nature had shed o’er the sceneHer purest of crystal and brightest of green;’Twasnother soft magic of streamlet or hill,Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.“ ’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,And who felt how the best charms of nature improveWhen we see them reflected from looks that we love;“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I restIn thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”
“THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.“Yet, itwasnot that nature had shed o’er the sceneHer purest of crystal and brightest of green;’Twasnother soft magic of streamlet or hill,Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.“ ’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,And who felt how the best charms of nature improveWhen we see them reflected from looks that we love;“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I restIn thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”
“THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
“THE MEETING OF THE WATERS.
“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
“There is not in this wide world a valley so sweet,
As that vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet;
Oh! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.
“Yet, itwasnot that nature had shed o’er the sceneHer purest of crystal and brightest of green;’Twasnother soft magic of streamlet or hill,Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.
“Yet, itwasnot that nature had shed o’er the scene
Her purest of crystal and brightest of green;
’Twasnother soft magic of streamlet or hill,
Oh! no, it was something more exquisite still.
“ ’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,And who felt how the best charms of nature improveWhen we see them reflected from looks that we love;
“ ’Twas that friends, the beloved of my bosom, were near,
Who made every dear scene of enchantment more dear,
And who felt how the best charms of nature improve
When we see them reflected from looks that we love;
“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I restIn thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”
“Sweet vale of Avoca! how calm could I rest
In thy bosom of shade, with the friends I love best.
Where the storms that we feel in this cold world should cease,
And our hearts, like thy waters, be mingled in peace.”
The vale of Avoca, thus made classic ground, thousands have since visited; and the tourist through Ireland would as soon think of neglecting the lakes of Killarney as “the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.”
From among the many descriptions of this beautiful spot, we will select that given by an American lady who visited Ireland in 1845. It is brief but eloquent. She says —
“It was Ireland’s summer twilight, lingering long, as though loth to draw the curtain closely about a bright isle in a dark world like this. It was early in July, the rich foliage had attained its maturity, and not a seared leaf was sprinkled on bush or tree, to warn that autumn was near. For the first mile the road was smooth and broad, lined with trees, now and then a white gate with white stone pillars, opening to some neat cottage or domain; the glowing streaks of the setting sun had not left the western sky, and glimmeredthrough the trees; while the air, made fragrant by the gentle shower, diffused through body and mind that calmness which seemed to whisper, ‘Be silent; it is the Vale of Avoca you are entering.’ We descended a declivity, and the vale opened upon us at ‘the Meeting of the Waters.’ The tree under which Moore sat when he wrote the sweet poem had been pointed to me in the morning. We now stood near the union of the two streams, where the poet says,
‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’
‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’
‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’
‘There is not in the wide world a valley so sweet,
As the vale in whose bosom the bright waters meet.’
The rich variety of wood; the still, clear, limpid water; the hill and vale, in some parts dark and wild, in others light and soft, ever and anon relieving the eye by some new variety; but above all, the pleasant association that this vale, however dark and deep its recesses, harbors not a venomous serpent or reptile—no, not even the buzz of the mosquito is heard—made it unlike all others. We rode three miles, scarcely uttering a syllable all the while; a holy repose seemed to rest on this hallowed spot, as when it first bloomed under the hand of its Maker, and imagination was prompted to say, as no serpent has ever coiled here, the contaminating touch of sin has not left its impress.
“Never did I leave a spot more reluctantly; it was a night scene which never has faded from my eye, and I hope never will.
‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’
‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’
‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’
‘O! the last rays of feeling and life must depart,
Ere the bloom of that valley shall fade from my heart.’
In the deep silence, the voice of God and the soft whisper of angels seemed to be there. These voices said kindly, ‘There is mercy yet for poor erring man.’ It appeared like the bow of the covenant, telling us to look and remember that though this world has been cursed by sin, yet a new heaven and earth are promised, of which this is a shadowy resemblance.
“The borders of this valley are interspersed with gentlemen’s seats, and here and there dotted with the white-washed cottages of the peasants; and the rich cluster of foliage upon the hill sides, upon bush and tree, almost persuade you that the dew of Hermon has fallen upon them. Stranger, when you visit Ireland, visit the Vale of Avoca. If you love God, here you will see him in a picture that must be read; if your stay be limited, waste it not in decyphering a time-defaced stone, telling the bloody deeds of some ancient warrior, or the austerity of some long-lived ascetic; but linger in this spot; stop at the neat little hotel, erected on purpose for the accommodation of the stranger; and morning, noon, and night explore its never-dying beauties of light and shade. Three times did I go through, and when I turned away at last, I felt that
‘I could stay there forever to wander and weep.’ ”
T. S. A.
THE LONE GRAVE-YARD.
———
BY HON. J. LEANDER STARR.
———
On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows,And on its banks the weeping willow grows;A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er,Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore.Beneath the willows which are growing there,Repose the forms of those once young and fair;The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep,And here the widow often comes to weep.It is a lovely spot for those who think —For close beside the forest-covered brink,The placid river rolls its gentle waves,And breezes fresh fan o’er the silent graves.Oft here I have sat on a still summer day,When lured from city life, and cares away;And lost in contemplation here reclined,And sought to calm the turbulence of mind.The bright sun sparkling on the rippled wave,The light-winged bird chanting on every grave,The balmy, pure, and health-restoring breeze,Sporting its gambols through the leafy trees.In such a spot whole hours have past and fled,With no companionship except the dead;Yet nottime lost, for even the silent tombProclaims its lesson—teaches of our doom.And we may read, while thoughtful and alone,A useful lesson from the sculptured stone;And lay to heart, and in our own behalf,The moral found in every epitaph.How calm the mind when rambling ’mid such scenes,What lessons thus the soul unconscious gleans!How vapid—worthless—now seem worldly cares,How vain and mad our mis-spent life appears.The busy world drives fast its votaries on,Months succeed days, and years these months again;Then life is o’er—“the morning vapor” fled!And we take rank with the unnumbered dead.Who would not choose his grave in village ground?Nature all calm—all sympathy—around!Instead of that false mockery and wo,Which city pageants, grand and heartless, show.Numbered among the village dead I’d lie,This be my resting-place whene’er I die!No epitaph—no tomb-stoned fulsome fame,But simply this—the record of my name.
On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows,And on its banks the weeping willow grows;A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er,Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore.Beneath the willows which are growing there,Repose the forms of those once young and fair;The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep,And here the widow often comes to weep.It is a lovely spot for those who think —For close beside the forest-covered brink,The placid river rolls its gentle waves,And breezes fresh fan o’er the silent graves.Oft here I have sat on a still summer day,When lured from city life, and cares away;And lost in contemplation here reclined,And sought to calm the turbulence of mind.The bright sun sparkling on the rippled wave,The light-winged bird chanting on every grave,The balmy, pure, and health-restoring breeze,Sporting its gambols through the leafy trees.In such a spot whole hours have past and fled,With no companionship except the dead;Yet nottime lost, for even the silent tombProclaims its lesson—teaches of our doom.And we may read, while thoughtful and alone,A useful lesson from the sculptured stone;And lay to heart, and in our own behalf,The moral found in every epitaph.How calm the mind when rambling ’mid such scenes,What lessons thus the soul unconscious gleans!How vapid—worthless—now seem worldly cares,How vain and mad our mis-spent life appears.The busy world drives fast its votaries on,Months succeed days, and years these months again;Then life is o’er—“the morning vapor” fled!And we take rank with the unnumbered dead.Who would not choose his grave in village ground?Nature all calm—all sympathy—around!Instead of that false mockery and wo,Which city pageants, grand and heartless, show.Numbered among the village dead I’d lie,This be my resting-place whene’er I die!No epitaph—no tomb-stoned fulsome fame,But simply this—the record of my name.
On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows,And on its banks the weeping willow grows;A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er,Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore.
On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows,
And on its banks the weeping willow grows;
A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er,
Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore.
Beneath the willows which are growing there,Repose the forms of those once young and fair;The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep,And here the widow often comes to weep.
Beneath the willows which are growing there,
Repose the forms of those once young and fair;
The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep,
And here the widow often comes to weep.
It is a lovely spot for those who think —For close beside the forest-covered brink,The placid river rolls its gentle waves,And breezes fresh fan o’er the silent graves.
It is a lovely spot for those who think —
For close beside the forest-covered brink,
The placid river rolls its gentle waves,
And breezes fresh fan o’er the silent graves.
Oft here I have sat on a still summer day,When lured from city life, and cares away;And lost in contemplation here reclined,And sought to calm the turbulence of mind.
Oft here I have sat on a still summer day,
When lured from city life, and cares away;
And lost in contemplation here reclined,
And sought to calm the turbulence of mind.
The bright sun sparkling on the rippled wave,The light-winged bird chanting on every grave,The balmy, pure, and health-restoring breeze,Sporting its gambols through the leafy trees.
The bright sun sparkling on the rippled wave,
The light-winged bird chanting on every grave,
The balmy, pure, and health-restoring breeze,
Sporting its gambols through the leafy trees.
In such a spot whole hours have past and fled,With no companionship except the dead;Yet nottime lost, for even the silent tombProclaims its lesson—teaches of our doom.
In such a spot whole hours have past and fled,
With no companionship except the dead;
Yet nottime lost, for even the silent tomb
Proclaims its lesson—teaches of our doom.
And we may read, while thoughtful and alone,A useful lesson from the sculptured stone;And lay to heart, and in our own behalf,The moral found in every epitaph.
And we may read, while thoughtful and alone,
A useful lesson from the sculptured stone;
And lay to heart, and in our own behalf,
The moral found in every epitaph.
How calm the mind when rambling ’mid such scenes,What lessons thus the soul unconscious gleans!How vapid—worthless—now seem worldly cares,How vain and mad our mis-spent life appears.
How calm the mind when rambling ’mid such scenes,
What lessons thus the soul unconscious gleans!
How vapid—worthless—now seem worldly cares,
How vain and mad our mis-spent life appears.
The busy world drives fast its votaries on,Months succeed days, and years these months again;Then life is o’er—“the morning vapor” fled!And we take rank with the unnumbered dead.
The busy world drives fast its votaries on,
Months succeed days, and years these months again;
Then life is o’er—“the morning vapor” fled!
And we take rank with the unnumbered dead.
Who would not choose his grave in village ground?Nature all calm—all sympathy—around!Instead of that false mockery and wo,Which city pageants, grand and heartless, show.
Who would not choose his grave in village ground?
Nature all calm—all sympathy—around!
Instead of that false mockery and wo,
Which city pageants, grand and heartless, show.
Numbered among the village dead I’d lie,This be my resting-place whene’er I die!No epitaph—no tomb-stoned fulsome fame,But simply this—the record of my name.
Numbered among the village dead I’d lie,
This be my resting-place whene’er I die!
No epitaph—no tomb-stoned fulsome fame,
But simply this—the record of my name.