OUR TEACHERS.
"I feel that the dead have conferred a blessing on me, by helping me to think of the world rightly."—Rev. Orville Dewey.
Say'st thou the dead are teachers?
Must we come,
And sit among the clods, and lay our ear
To the damp crannies of the loathsome tomb,
And listen for their lore?
There comes no sound
From all those stern and stone-bound sepulchres.
Grassblades are there, and flowers, and now and then
A mother-bird doth cheer her callow young
With chirping strain; while the low winds that sweep
The shivering harp-strings of yon ancient pines
Make sullen undulation.
Still thou say'st
The silent dead are teachers.
Stretch your hands,
And on our tablets write one pencil-trace,
That we may hoard it in our heart of hearts.
All motionless! All passionless! All mute!
O silence! twin with wisdom! I would press
My lip upon yon cradled infant's grave,
And drink the murmur of its smitten bloom.
A mother's young pride in her beautiful,
Her darling ministries from eve to morn,
