Volume 6 — All Souls' Day. 1866.

On every cross or slab, a wreath—on some, Two, three, or more—of radiant autumn leaves, Mingled with gold and white chrysanthemum; Even the nameless, unmarked grave receives Some pledge from mortal love Unto peace-parted souls, we trust, with God above. The choral chaunt is hushed, the Mass is said: Noon, but already the last pilgrim gone: Brief visits pay the living to the dead, But once a year we meet o'er those we mourn. I wait unwatched, alone, To muse o'er some once loved, o'er many more unknown. That cross of marble, with its sculptured base, Guards the blest ashes of a friend whose form Was half my boyhood; his arch, laughing face— The last you'd take to front a coming storm, Or dare what none else durst: Read how he fell, of all the best and bravest, first! Another pastor near him lies asleep, Fresh wreaths, love-woven, mark the newer sod; Each lettered white cross bids me pause to weep Some lost companion or some man of God. Beneath this sacred ground, More friends I number than in all the world around. There, side by side, far from the forfeit home For which they vainly bled, three soldiers rest, In sight of the round peak, whose bannered dome Crowns the defiles wherein the fiery crest Of a dead nation paled Before the heights, where erst the great Virginian failed. Westward, a little higher up the steep, Rests a young mother—on her cross, a bar Of golden music: since she fell asleep The world she left has somehow seemed ajar; Those patient, peaceful eyes, With which she watched the world, diffused sweet harmonies. For she was pure—pure as the snows of Yule That hailed her birth: pure as the autumnal snow That flecked her coffin: she was beautiful, Heroic, gentle: none could ever know That face and then forget: Though vanished years ago, her smile seems living yet. And near her, happy in that nearness, lies The world-worn consul by his best-loved child— The first rest of a life of sacrifice: The native stars, that on his labors smiled So rarely, o'er the wave Beckoned him to the peace of home—and of the grave. Here, too, a relic of primeval ways And statelier manners, mingled with the grace Of Israel: in the evening of her days, Baptized at fourscore—strongest of her race, Yet twice a child—that rain Supernal leaving all those years without a stain. And thou, young soldier, teach me how to turn From earth to heaven, as in the solemn hour Thy soul was turned. Ah! well for thee to learn So soon that festal board and bridal flower May foil the out-stretched hand: That life's best conquest is the holy afterland. Holding the very summit of the slope, A pointed chapel, girt with evergreen And frailer summer foliage—still as hope— Watches the east for morning's earliest sheen: Beneath it slumbers one For whom the tears of unextinguished grief still run. A twelve-month mourned, yet deeper now the loss Than when first fell the slowly sudden doom, And on her pale breast lay the unmoving cross: Lone tenant of that solitary tomb, Love's daily widowed prayer Still craves reunion in thy chambered sepulchre. The sunset shadow of this chapel falls Upon a classmate's grave: a rare delight Laughed in his youth: but, one by one, the halls Of life were darkened, till, amid the night, A single star remained— Bright herald of the paradise by tears regained. High in the bending trees the north wind sings, The shining chestnut to my feet is rolled The shivering mountains, bare as bankrupt kings, Sit beggared of their purple and their gold: The naked plain below Sighs to the clouds, impatient of its robe of snow. Death is in all things: yet how small it seems, God's chosen acre on this mountain-side: A speck, a mote: while yonder cornland gleams With hoarded plenty, stretching far and wide. A hundred acres there Content not one: one acre serves a thousand here. Ah! we forget them in our changing lot— Forget the past in present weal or woe; But yet, perchance, more angels guard this spot Than wander in the living fields below: And, as I pass the gate, The world without seems strangely void and desolate.