The Grave

LIFE'S Day is darked with Storm and ill;
The Night of Death is mild and still:
The consecrated Grave receives
Our frames as Earth doth withered leaves.

There sunbeams shine, there dewy showers
Fall bright as on the garden-bowers;

And Friendship's tear-drops, in the ray
Of Hope, are brighter still than they.

The Mother from her lampless dome

Calls out to all, " Come home! Come home!"

O! could we once behold her face,

We ne'er would shun her dark embrace.