THE CEMETERY OF PERE LA CHAISE.
Is this the abode of the dead?—Oh no!—
The symbols of joy are here,—
Gay wreaths round columns of marble glow,
From bright-wing'd birds sweet melodies flow,
Nor cypress nor yew are near.
I thought that the city which death had rear'd
Was with banners of grief o'erspread,—
That pleasure to weave her light garland fear'd,
And the path to its desolate shrines appear'd
Deep worn by the mourner's tread.
Yet still is there nought of secret wo
'Neath the guise of this gaudy cheer?—
On yon little mound where roses grow,
Methinks that pale flower with its lip of snow
Hath drank of a mother's tear.
Yes! Yes!—'t is the site of the dreamless bed,
There 's a voice from those sepulchres cold,—
The mighty are there,—but their pomp is dead,
And the lover who pale from the bridal fled,
In his bosom the worm to fold.
Can ye tell us nought of the souls who fly
From their prison of earthly gloom?—
Hark! Hark! to the hollow and hoarse reply,
"Ora pro anima mea," they cry
From the depth of each sculptured tomb.
But why do ye cry unto us, ye dead?—
We are striving with sorrow's blast,
We are weak, and mid snares of sin we tread,
We are frail, and the change of death we dread,
That change with you is past.
Till the fearful audit of mortal crime,
When the books of the judgment ope,
Till the flash of that flame whose wrath sublime
Shall feed on the spoils of buried time,
Rest,—rest in your beds of hope.