Page:Amulet 1836.pdf/5

'Tis but a pious memory
    That lingers in this dell,
That human tears, and human prayers,
    Have sanctified the cell.

Save for that memory, all we see
    Were only some fair scene,
Not linked unto our present time,
    By aught that once hath been.

But now a moral influence
    Is on that small grey stone;
For who e'er watched another's grave
    And thought not of his own,

And felt that all his trust in life
    Was leaning on a reed?
And who can hear of prayer and faith
    And not confess their need?

If he who sleeps beneath thought years
    Of prayer might scarce suffice
To reconcile his God, and win
    A birthright in the skies,

What may we hope, who hurry on
    Through life's tumultuous day,
And scarcely give one little hour
    To heaven upon our way!