Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/100

Or where the Turk funereal cypress rears,
Or the poor Cambrian plants his vale of tears,
Or search Mount Auburn's consecrated glades,
Mid lakes and groves and labyrinthine shades,
Or Laurel Hill, where silver Schuylkill flows,
Quiescent guarding while its guests repose,
Or near the Lehigh's rippling margin roam,
Where the Moravian finds his dead a home,
In lowly grave, by clustering plants o'ergrown,
That half conceal its horizontal stone,
One voice, one language, speaks each sacred scene,
Sepulchral vault, or simpler mound of green,
One voice, one language, breathes with changeless power,
Graved on the stone, or trembling in the flower.

That voice is love for the pale clay, that shrined
And fondly lodged the never-dying mind,
Toiled for its welfare, with its burdens bent,
Wept o'er its woes, and at its bidding went,
Thrilled at its joys, with zeal obeyed its will,
And'neath the stifling clod remembers still.
Though on the winds its severed atoms fly,
It hoards the promise of the Archangel's cry,
Though slain, trusts on, though buried, hopes to rise,
In ashes fans a fire that never dies,
And with the resurrection's dawning light
Shall burst its bonds, revivify, unite,