Classic Poem

In each cold bed a mortal sleeps —
The Silent L ODGE is here!
Pale death an awful vigil keeps,
Through all the changing year.

What tears have wet these grassy mounds
What sighs these winds have heard!
Oh, God, have not the piteous sounds
Thy pitying bosom stirred?

Shall man thus die and waste away,
And no fond hope be left?
Is there no sweet, confiding ray
For bosoms all bereft?

From each cold bed a form shall rise
When the great hour shall come;
The trump shall shake the upper skies,
And wake the lower tomb.

No weeping then, no tear nor groan,
For these around us spread;
A shout shall reach the very Throne
From the long-silent dead.

Then hush our hearts, be dry each tear,
Wake, oh, desponding faith!
And when our S AVIOUR shall appear,
We too shall conquer death!

On these blest Graves let sunbeams pour
Their balmiest influence;
On them let each reviving shower
Its gracious pearls dispense.

O'er these blest Graves each gentle breeze
Its heavenly whispers breathe;
O'er them the foliage of the trees
A crown of verdure wreathe.

Round these blest Graves at dead of night,
May angel bands combine,
And from their Mansions ever bright,
Bring something all Divine.

From these blest Graves may hope revive:
May J UDAH'S L ION tell
That we shall meet these dead alive,
For oh, we loved them well!

Then come, sad hour, we lay us down
And calmly wait his word:
Blest are the dead, our spirits own
Who knew and served the L ORD .