I
AY thee lay me not to rest Among these mouldering bones;
Too heavily the earth is
By all these crowded stones.
Life is too gay—life is too near—With all its pomp and toil;
I pray thee do not lay me here,
In such a world-struck soil.
The ceaseless roll of wheels would
The slumbers of the dead;
I cannot bear for life to
Its pathway o'er my head.
The flags around are cold and drear,
They stand apart, alone;
And no one ever pauses here,
To sorrow for the gone.
No: lay me in the far green
The summer sunshine cheers;
And where the early wild flower
The tribute of its tears.
Where shadows the sepulchral yew,
Where droops the willow tree,
Where the long grass is filled with dew—Oh! make such grave for me!
And passers-by, at evening's close,
Will pause beside the grave,
And moralize o'er the
They fear, and yet they crave.
Perhaps some kindly hand may
Its offering to the tomb;
And say,
As fades the rose in spring,
So fadeth human bloom.
But here there is no kindly
To soothe, and to relieve;
No fancies and no flowers are brought,
That soften while they grieve.
Here Poesy and Love come not—It is a world of stone;
The grave is bought—is closed—forgot!
And then life hurries on.
Sorrow and beauty—nature—love—Redeem man's common breath;
Ah! let them shed the grave above—Give loveliness to death.
