The Churchyard

FIRST VOICE

How frightful the grave! How deserted and drear!
With the howls of the storm-wind, the creaks of the bier,
And the white bones all clattering together!

SECOND VOICE

How peaceful the grave! Its quiet how deep!
Its zephyrs breathe calmly, and soft is its sleep,
And flowerets perfume it with ether.

FIRST VOICE

There riots the blood-crested worm on the dead,
And the yellow skull serves the foul toad for a bed,
And snakes in its nettle-weeds hiss.

SECOND VOICE

How lovely, how lone the repose of the tomb!
No tempests are there, but the nightingales come
And sing their sweet chorus of bliss.

FIRST VOICE

The ravens of night flap their wings o'er the grave:
'T is the vulture's abode; 't is the wolf's dreary cave,
Where they tear up the earth with their fangs.

SECOND VOICE

There the coney at evening disports with his love,
Or rests on the sod, while the turtles above
Repose on the bough that o'erhangs.

FIRST VOICE

There darkness and dampness with poisonous breath
And loathsome decay fill the dwelling of death,
The trees are all barren and bare.

SECOND VOICE

Oh, soft are the breezes that play round the tomb,
And sweet with the violet's wafted perfume,
With lilies and jessamine fair!

FIRST VOICE

The pilgrim who reaches this valley of tears
Would fain hurry by, and with trembling and fears
He is launched on the wreck-covered river.

SECOND VOICE

The traveller outworn with life's pilgrimage dreary,
Lays down his rude staff, like one that is weary,
And sweetly reposes for ever.
Translation: 
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Author of original: 
Nikolay Mikhaylovich Karamzin
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