God's-Acre Thou, stranger, that shalt come this way, They do not lie, but here they sit. Here still a lofty rock remains, On which the curious eye may trace (Now wasted half by wearing rains) The fancies of a ruder race. Here still an aged elm aspires, Beneath whose far projecting shade (And which the shepherd still admires) The children of the forest played. There oft a restless Indian queen (Pale Shebah with her braided hair), By midnight moons, o'er moistening dews, The hunter still the deer pursues, And long shall timorous Fancy see The painted chief, and pointed spear, And Reason's self shall bow the knee To shadows and delusions here. 3227 Philip Freneau [1752–1832] GOD'S-ACRE I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which calls God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith, that we shall rise again Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, With that of flowers, which never bloomed on earth. With thy rude plowshare, Death, turn up the sod, This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place where human harvests grow. THE CITY OF THE DEAD THEY do neither plight nor wed In the city of the dead, In the city where they sleep away the hours; And a hundred happy whisperings of flowers. And the day is like the night, For their vision is of other kind than ours. They do neither sing nor sigh In that burg of by and by, Where the streets have grasses growing cool and long; But they rest within their bed, Leaving all their thoughts unsaid, Deeming silence better far than sob or song. No, they neither sigh nor sing, Though the robin be a-wing, Though the leaves of Autumn march a million strong. There is only rest and peace In the City of Surcease From the failings and the wailings 'neath the sun, And the wings of the swift years Beat but gently o'er the biers, The Old Sexton Making music to the sleepers every one. There is only peace and rest; But to them it seemeth best, 3229 For they lie at ease and know that life is done. THE GARDEN THAT I LOVE THE Garden that I love is full of Light; It lies upon the sloping of a hill, Where Dawn first stirs the curtains of the Night, The garden that I love is full of Peace; The garden that I love is full of Dreams; Visions of joy gone by, and bliss that waits, Beyond the furthest verge of sunset gleams, With the wide opening of the Golden Gates. The garden that I love is full of Rest; God's own fair Acre, where His dear ones lie, In the safe shelter of the kind earth's breast, Waiting His Easter dawning up the sky. There may I rest, asleep with them awhile, There may I wake, with them, that glorious Day, When, in the sunshine of the Master's smile, Sorrow and sighing shall be swept away! Florence L. Henderson [18 THE OLD SEXTON NIGH to a grave that was newly made, The funeral-train at the open gate. A relic of by-gone days was he, And his locks were gray as the foamy sea; "I gather them in; for man and boy, I've builded the houses that lie around But come they stranger, or come they kin, "Many are with me, yet I'm alone; I'm King of the Dead, and I make my throne On a monument slab of marble cold My scepter of rule is the spade I hold. Come they from cottage, or come they from hall, Mankind are my subjects, all, all, all! May they loiter in pleasure, or toilfully spin, I gather them in-I gather them in. "I gather them in, and their final rest Is here, down here, in the earth's dark breast!" Park Benjamin [1809-1864] GRAVE-DIGGER'S SONG From "Prince Lucifer" THE crab, the bullace, and the sloe, They burgeon in the Spring; And, when the west wind melts the snow, Daybreak But Death's at work in rind and root, Death! Death! Death is master of lord and clown. Close the coffin, and hammer it down. When nuts are brown and sere without, When comes the reaper with his scythe, Death! Death! Lower the coffin and slip the cord: When logs about the house are stacked, And tales are told and jokes are cracked, Death sits down in the ingle-nook, Sits down and doth not speak: 3231 But he puts his arm round the maid that's warm, And she tingles in the cheek. Death! Death! Death is master of lord and clown; Shovel the clay in, tread it down. Alfred Austin [1835 DAYBREAK A WIND came up out of the sea, And said, "O mists, make room for me!" It hailed the ships, and cried, "Sail on, |