Among the Tombs

Sad, sombre place, beneath whose antique yewsI come, unquiet sorrows to control;Amid thy silent mossgrown graves to museWith my neglected solitary soul;And to poetic sadness care confide,Trusting sweet Melancholy for my guide:

They will not ask why in thy shades I stray,Among the tombs finding my rare delight,Beneath the sun at indolent noonday,Or in the windy moon-enchanted night,Who have once reined in their steeds at any shrine,And given them water from the well divine.--

The orchards are all ripened, and the sunSpots the deserted gleanings with decay;The seeds are perfected: his work is done,And Autumn lingers but to outsmile the May;Bidding his tinted leaves glide, bidding clearUnto clear skies the birds applaud the year.

Lo, here I sit, and to the world I call,The world my solemn fancy leaves behind,Come! pass within the inviolable wall,Come pride, come pleasure, come distracted mind;Within the fated refuge, hither, turn,And learn your wisdom ere 'tis late to learn.

Come with me now, and taste the fount of tears;For many eyes have sanctified this spot,Where grief's unbroken lineage endearsThe charm untimely Folly injures not,And slays the intruding thoughts, that overleapThe simple fence its holiness doth keep.

Read the worn names of the forgotten dead,Their pompous legends will no smile awake;Even the vainglorious title o'er the headWins its pride pardon for its sorrow's sake;And carven Loves scorn not their dusty prize,Though fallen so far from tender sympathies.

Here where a mother laid her only son,Here where a lover left his bride, belowThe treasured names their own are added onTo those whom they have followed long ago:Sealing the record of the tears they shed,That 'where their treasure there their hearts are fled.'

Grandfather, father, son, and then againChild, grandchild, and great-grandchild laid beneathNumbered in turn among the sons of men,And gathered each one in his turn to death:While he that occupies their house and nameTo-day,--to-morrow too their grave shall claim.

And where are all the spirits? Ah! could we tellThe manner of our being when we die,And see beyond the scene we know so well,The country that so much obscured doth lie!With brightest visions our fond hopes repair,Or crown our melancholy with despair;

From death, still death, still would a comfort come:Since of this world the essential joy must fallIn all distributed, in each thing some,In nothing all, and all complete in all;Till pleasure, ageing to her full increase,Puts on perfection, and is throned in peace.

Yea, sweetest peace, unsought-for, undesired,Loathed and misnamed, 'tis thee I worship here:Though in most black habiliments attired,Thou art sweet peace, and thee I cannot fear.Nay, were my last hope quenched, I here would sitAnd praise the annihilation of the pit.

Nor quickly disenchanted will my feetBack to the busy town return, but yetLinger, ere I my loving friends would greet,Or touch their hands, or share without regretThe warmth of that kind hearth, whose sacred tiesOnly shall dim with tears my dying eyes.