'T IS a calm spot in Summer's hour and in the dawn of Spring,
While buds come up, like freshening thoughts when Youth is on the wing:
Here, while the unfolding gates of Day, are opening free and wide,
And glory robes the landscape round, in an unsullied pride;
While the amber clouds that gem the West are melting in the sun;
And, lessening in his radiant smile, through the far ether run:
Here, where beneath the sanctity of the bright azure sky,
The new-born birds are dancing on the south wind's fragrant sigh;
Where the sun-lit brook sends on the ear the prattle of its wave,
And melts upon the vernal shore, is placed a nameless Grave!

A haunt for monitory thought on life's dull scene is this,
A lesson on its fleeting hour, its little day of bliss:
No sculptured marble marks the spot where this dull clay is laid;
No sigh is breathed, save of the gale, in the dim cypress shade!
And who this wasting breast hath lov'd, the still grave answers not;
'Tis only known its throbs are hush'd, its weariness forgot:
The clod hath sent its hollow sound up from the coffin-lid:
The farewell hath been spoken — the familiar face been hid!

And where are they, who once did stand beside this nameless mound,
And felt the unhealed pang of Grief — the bosom's secret wound?
The love they bore, the tears they shed? oh, who the tale may tell!
The fitful winds no record keep, what sorrows then befell;
The sunny brook goes babbling on; the Spring-leaves come and go,
Yet they waken not the heart that here lies mouldering and low;
These ashes will not live again till the dim skies abroad
Are as a scroll, and Earth and Sea heave in the breath of God !