The Grave-diggers' Chant

DIG, dig, my spade!

Whate'er these hands have made,

Good spade, I owe to thee 1
Rich folk and poor
Throng in at my dark door,

Come late or soon to me.

Yon yellow scull
Shewed once a beautiful

But haughty brow and lip;
Yon thing of bones
Left kings and courts and thrones

For reptile fellowship!

This head with hair
Was that of one too fair

To linger long on Earth:
Love, Beauty, Grace,
Beamed from her angel face,

And smiles and sunny mirth.

Ah, gone, and gone!
We wither one by one,

As Autumn-leaves decay,
Old, Young, and all;
Yet, whensoever we fall,

Life seemeth but a day!

Dig, then, my spade!

Whate'er these hands have made,

Good spade, I owe to thee!
Kich folk and poor
Must knock at my dark door,

Must one day come to me,