And hoary age has sunk to rest,
Deep buried 'neath the crumbling sod;
No anxious cares disturb his breast,--
His ransom'd soul has flown to God.
Weary and sad, he struggled on
Life's rugged pathway, till its close;
And then, in death, lay calmly down,
To slumber in its deep repose.
I turn'd to view a little grave,
Where infant sweetness silent slept;
There the tall myrtle mournful way'd,--
The willow there in sorrow slept.
"Sleep on," I cried, "thy little breast
Ne'er knew the heartfelt woes of men;
No pain or care disturb thy rest,
Or jarring scenes obstruct thy ken.
"Happy, like thee, might I resign
This life in Virtue's purest ray,
And spring to life and joy divine,
Free from this cumbrous load of clay.
But hark! I hear the boding owl,
With fearful screams at distance cry;
The evening breezes mournful howl,
And bats their nightly circles ply.
Thick, sombre clouds obscur'd the sky,
And hid the moon's refulgent light--
No sparkling star shed cheerful ray.
To light the lonely shades of night.
I grop'd my way with careful tread,
To shun the cold, unconscious urn,
And left the mansions of the dead,
Where soon or late I must return.
For I must sleep with ages past,
And ages yet to come,
Till the last trump of God shall wake
Each tenant of the tomb.
A Scene on the Kennebec River.
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