Classic Poem

" May I, when given to dust, be laid
In the o'erarching oak trees' shade!
Not midst the crowded ranks of those
In life commingled, friends or foes;
Not neath the dust of trampling feet;
Not where the mourners frequent meet;
But far from life's poor turmoil laid
In the o'erarching oak trees shade. "

'Tis done; this sweet, retired scene
Is nature's own delightful green;
No voice but the lamenting dove
That sighs and murmurs of her love;
No footsteps but the tender tread
Of those who loved, who love the dead;
No passion but the sigh subdued,
Breathed for the friend who's gone to God.

The pilgrim, dusty from a path
That circles round the weary earth,
Stands mutely pleased: — 'Twas well to place
The Master on a couch like this!
The B UILDERS , scattered as they be,
Sleeping on plain, and mount, and sea,
Dispersed until the trumpet's blast —
Few of them have such fitting rest.

How searchingly that awful E YE
Reads the impress of memory!
Death cannot hide a brother dead,
But the O MNISCIENT E YE will read
Each act, each word, each secret thought,
Through a long life conceived or wrought;
Well for the sleeper if his life
Endure a scrutiny so rife!

But thou, oh Master of the Craft,
A spotless memory hath left;
The pitying heart, the loving soul,
The liberal hand to crown the whole,
And zeal in toils of mystic plan,
Which honor God and honor man —
These are thy jewels — they will try
The ken of the A LL -S EEING E YE .

Rest peaceful, then, while nature sighs,
And graces where thy body lies!
Lift high that column many a year,
To call the grateful B UILDERS near!
Wait patient for the mystic call
From out the depths of Heaven's hall; —
" Ye B UILDERS , M EN from many lands,
Come to the house not made with hands! "