THE GRAVE.
Who in a faithful breast our frailties hides
Breathing them not to the invidious ear,
But with oblivions mantle covering all?
Friendship?
Alas! Her most immaculate shrine
Hath sometimes yielded to the traitor's key,
And she with Luna's ever-varying phase
Reveal'd her own infirmity. The Grave,
The voiceless Grave shall be to thee a friend
Who breaks no promise and no trust betrays.
—What hand our virtues decks with fadeless bloom,
Throwing fresh fragrance o'er their timid buds?
Memory?
—Ah, no!—She, like a reaper blind,
Or impotent with age, oft gathereth tares
Into her garner, and doth leave the wheat
To moulder all unbound. The Grave alone
Shall do this office for us. Why, O Grave!
Giver of rest to Earth's o'erladen ones,
Whose love doth shame our friendship, and whose care
Treasureth what Memory scatters,—why with haste
Of bitter loathing, turn we from thine arms?