THE LONE GRAVE-YARD.
Reading edition
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BY HON. J. LEANDER STARR.
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On Nyack’s shore the mighty Hudson flows,
And on its banks the weeping willow grows;
A wood-embowered spot thus shaded o’er,
Lies half-concealed, sloping toward the shore.
Beneath the willows which are growing there,
Repose the forms of those once young and fair;
The aged, too, here rest in mystic sleep,
And here the widow often comes to weep.
It is a lovely spot for those who think —
For close beside the forest-covered brink,
The placid river rolls its gentle waves,
And breezes fresh fan o’er the silent graves.
Oft here I have sat on a still summer day,
When lured from city life, and cares away;
And lost in contemplation here reclined,
And sought to calm the turbulence of mind.
The bright sun sparkling on the rippled wave,
The light-winged bird chanting on every grave,
The balmy, pure, and health-restoring breeze,
Sporting its gambols through the leafy trees.
In such a spot whole hours have past and fled,
With no companionship except the dead;
Yet not time lost, for even the silent tomb
Proclaims its lesson—teaches of our doom.
And we may read, while thoughtful and alone,
A useful lesson from the sculptured stone;
And lay to heart, and in our own behalf,
The moral found in every epitaph.
How calm the mind when rambling ’mid such scenes,
What lessons thus the soul unconscious gleans!
How vapid—worthless—now seem worldly cares,
How vain and mad our mis-spent life appears.
The busy world drives fast its votaries on,
Months succeed days, and years these months again;
Then life is o’er—“the morning vapor” fled!
And we take rank with the unnumbered dead.
Who would not choose his grave in village ground?
Nature all calm—all sympathy—around!
Instead of that false mockery and wo,
Which city pageants, grand and heartless, show.
Numbered among the village dead I’d lie,
This be my resting-place whene’er I die!
No epitaph—no tomb-stoned fulsome fame,
But simply this—the record of my name.