Classic Poem

The pomp of death was there, —
The lettered urn, the classic marble rose,
And coldly, in magnificent repose,
Stood out the column fair

The hand of art was seen
Throwing the wild flowers from the gravelled walk; —
The sweet wild flowers, — that hold their quiet talk
Upon the uncultured green

And now, perchance, a bird
Hiding amid the trained and scattered trees,
Sent forth his carol on the scentless breeze, —
But they were few I heard

Did my heart's pulses beat?
And did mine eye o'erflow with sudden tears,
Such as gush up 'mid memories of years,
When humbler graves we meet?

A humbler grave I met,
On the Potomac's leafy banks, when May,
Weaving spring flowers, stood out in colors gay,
With her young coronet.

A lonely, nameless grave,
Stretching its length beneath th' o'erarching trees,
Which told a plaintive story, as the breeze
Came their new buds to wave.

But the lone turf was green
As that which gathers o'er more honored forms;
Nor with more harshness had the wintry storms
Swept o'er that woodland scene

The flower and springing blade
Looked upward with their young and shining eyes,
And met the sunlight of the happy skies,
And that low turf arrayed.

And unchecked birds sang out
The chorus of their spring-time jubilee; —
And gentle happiness it was to me,
To list their music-shout.

And to that stranger-grave
The tribute of enkindling thoughts, the free
And unbought power of natural sympathy,
Passing, I sadly gave.

And a religious spell
On that lone mound, by man deserted, rose, —
A conscious presence from on high; which glows
Not where the worldly dwell,