The Church-Yard

FIRST VOICE.

How frightful the grave! how deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind--the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!

SECOND VOICE.

How peaceful the grave! its quiet how deep!
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flow’rets perfume it with ether.

FIRST VOICE.

There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

SECOND VOICE.

How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb!
No tempests are there:--but the nightingales come
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

FIRST VOICE.

The ravens of night flap their wings o’er the grave:--
’Tis the vulture’s abode:--’tis the wolf’s dreary cave,
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs

SECOND VOICE.

There the coney at evening disports with his love,
Or rests on the sod;--while the turtles above,
Repose on the bough that o’erhangs.

FIRST VOICE.

There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath,
And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death,
The trees are all barren and bare!

SECOND VOICE.

O soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet’s wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair.

FIRST VOICE.

The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears,
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears
He is launched on the wreck-covered river!

SECOND VOICE.

The traveller outworn with life’s pilgrimage dreary,
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes for ever.