72
POEMS.
The Old Burying Ground.
O an old, old place it is,
Landmark of the centuries!
Damp with mold, and dark with shade
As secluded cloisters where,
Screened by stately colonnade,
Holy monks devotions paid;
Or upon mosaics bare
Vestal virgins knelt in prayer.
Landmark of the centuries!
Damp with mold, and dark with shade
As secluded cloisters where,
Screened by stately colonnade,
Holy monks devotions paid;
Or upon mosaics bare
Vestal virgins knelt in prayer.
Hidden in the very heart
Of the busy bustling mart,
Where Life's ever-surging tide,
Restless as the mighty sea,
Scarce its ripples doth divide;
Save perchance when one aside
Turns from curiosity,
Some ancestral tomb to see.
Of the busy bustling mart,
Where Life's ever-surging tide,
Restless as the mighty sea,
Scarce its ripples doth divide;
Save perchance when one aside
Turns from curiosity,
Some ancestral tomb to see.
Oldest habitant knows not
First when this sequestered spot
Broken by the sexton's spade
Place of sepulture became;
Knoweth not if man or maid
In its primal cell was laid—
So, in Death, dissolveth fame
And the prestige of a name.
First when this sequestered spot
Broken by the sexton's spade
Place of sepulture became;
Knoweth not if man or maid
In its primal cell was laid—
So, in Death, dissolveth fame
And the prestige of a name.
