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THE GRAVE OF A MAN OF WORTH.
Hail, lonely spot of holy ground!Where sleep, in death's cold fetters bound,The relics of a man of worth—Tread lightly on the sacred earthThat wraps his lowly pillow'd head, And presses on his throbless breast;And view with rev'rence meet, the bed Where the soul's earthly mansion sinks to rest.
The very winds of heav'n do blow Softly, as if they fear'd to breakThe slumbers of the dead below; And even sorrow here forbears to makeHer wailings wild, but soothed to solemn woeDrops the mute tear unseen—while from aboveAngelic beings bend with smiles of love.
Let no unhallow'd foot intrudeUpon this sacred solitude!All pure must be the tear, as summer show'rs, That falls, oh Allen! on thy peaceful bed—Pure as the dew upon the simple flow'rs That o'er thy turf their grateful fragrance shed.
Pure as that dew was thy unspotted mind, Where bright religion held unrivall'd sway;And charity, and love to human kind, And ev'ry virtue cheer'd thy little day,
