THE LIVING DEAD.
ERE all around me are the mouldering dead— The dead of ancient Rome; for evermoreThey sleep beneath the grass, where violets shed Their dewy scented kisses at the doorOf every grave fast locked by buds of spring,Whose petals softly fold, as angel's wing.Where'er I go, still walk I o'er the dead— Forgotten dead; but are they only so,Who 'neath the cooling grass through which I tread, Have broken bond with life, and falling low,Are hidden from our sight, down buried deep,Where neither sun may warm, nor showers weep?
Alas! the angel guardian of our life Bids us look round, and count the living dead,
