Till, in the strength of penitence
To the worst sinner given,
The grave would seem a resting-place
Between this world and heaven.
'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 e'er had 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?
Thou blessed grave! ah, not in vain
Has been thy presence here,
If it hath wrought in any heart
One higher hope or fear.
L. E. L.
