Lines On the Burial of Mrs. Mary L. Ward, at Dale Cemetery, Sing-Sing, May 3, 1853.

The knell was tolled--the requiem sung,
    The solemn burial-service read;
And tributes from the heart and tongue
    Were rendered to the dead.

The dead?--Religion answers, "No!
    She is not dead--She can not die!
A mortal left this vale of wo!--
    An angel lives on high!"

The earth upon her coffin-lid
    Sounded a hollow, harsh adieu!
The mound arose, and she was hid
    For ever from the view!

For ever?--Drearily the thought
    Passed, like an ice-bolt, through the brain;
When Faith the recollection brought
    That we shall meet again.

The mourners wound their silent way
    Adown the mountain's gentle slope,
Which, basking in the smile of May,
    Looked cheerfully as hope.

As hope?--What hope?--That boundless One
    God in His love and mercy gave;
Which brightens, with salvation's sun,
    The darkness of the grave.

George Pope Morris

George Pope Morris was an American editor, poet, and songwriter. Born on October 10, 1802, he made significant contributions to American literature and music. Morris co-founded and edited the New York Evening Mirror, where he published works by Edgar Allan Poe and others. He is perhaps best known for his song "Woodman, Spare That Tree!" and his role in the early 19th-century literary scene. Morris died on July 6, 1864, leaving behind a legacy of editorial and creative work that influenced many American writers and musicians.

George Pope Morris

The Prairie on Fire

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Lisette.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Thou Hast Woven the Spell.

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

Land-Ho!

George Pope Morris, Simple Poetry

English

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Funeral Hymn.

"Man dieth and wasteth away,
    And where is he?"--Hark! from the skies
I hear a voice answer and say,
    "The spirit of man never dies:
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No terror has death, or the grave,
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The sky will be burnt as a scroll--
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Heaven And Earth.

Turn from the grave, turn from the grave,
There's fearful mystery there;
Descend not to the shadowy tomb,
If thou wouldst shun despair.
It tells a tale of severed ties
To break the bleeding heart,
And from the "canopy of dust"
Would make it death to part.
Oh! lift the eye of faith to worlds
Where death shall never come,
And there behold "the pure in heart"
Whom God has gathered home,
Beyond the changing things of time,
Beyond the reach of care.
How sweet to view the ransomed ones
In dazzling glory there!
They seem to whisper to the loved
Who smoothed their path below,
"Weep not for us, our tears have all
Forever ceased to flow."
Take from the grave, take from the grave,
Those bright, but withering; flowers,
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Our Mountain Cemetery.

Lonely and silent and calm it lies
'Neath rosy dawn or midnight skies;
So densely peopled, yet so still,
The murmuring voice of mountain rill,
The plaint the wind 'mid branches wakes,
Alone the solemn silence breaks.

Whatever changes the seasons bring, -
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The glories that come with the falling year
The snows and storms of winter drear, -
Are all unmarked in this lone spot,
Its shrouded inmates feel them not.

Thoughts full of import, earnest and deep,
Must the feeling heart in their spirit steep,
Here, where Death's footprints meet the sight:
The long chill rows of tombstones white,
The graves so thickly, widely spread,
Within this city of the Dead.

Say, who could tell what aching sighs,
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The Hope of the Resurrection

    Though I have watched so many mourners weep
    O'er the real dead, in dull earth laid asleep -
    Those dead seemed but the shadows of my days
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    Now though you go on smiling in the sun
    Our love is slain, and love and you were one.
    You are the first, you I have known so long,
    Whose death was deadly, a tremendous wrong.
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    Amid the lilies and the candle-light.
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"Restland."

Written In The Danville (KY.) Cemetery.


I.

Within thy hallowed precincts on this sweet autumnal day,
    We're wandering 'neath the cedar and the pine,
Where rests the sacred dust of loved ones passed away,
    And bleeding hearts a melancholy pleasure find.


II.

In memory's faithful mirror here once more we trace
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And see again the shadowy outlines of some face
    That, living, beamed with kindness--ever true.


III.

Old age, and manhood's prime, and helpless infancy
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And marked each stone with mournful tracery
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IV.

And there the marble shaft its s...

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The Soldier's Grave.

[To the memory of Lieut. Wm. W. Wardell, of the First Massachusetts Cavalry, killed May 28, 1864.]


Above his head the cypress waves
    Its dark green drooping leaves;
The sunlight through its branches wide
Where bright birds linger side by side
    A golden net-work weaves.

Within the church-yard's silent gloom
    He lies in quiet rest;
And never more to cold, pale brow,
Or proud lips mute with silence now
    Will loving lips be pressed.

Perhaps even now in death's dark dream
    He sees the deadly strife;
Where brothers fought with blinded eyes,
Forgetting all the tender ties
    That bound them life to life.

Ah! nobly there he proudly rode
    With honest, warm, true heart;
And shrank not from the carnage red,
...

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