112 THE GRANITE MONTHLY.
WHO ARE THE DEAD?
��BY \V. C. STUROC.
And do the dead all sleep below the sod, Or 'neath the wave, or on the battle-plain ?
Must all who die, have laid aside the load Of human frailty? Do there none remain
On earth alive, and yet so dead in soul,
That o'er their hearts Benevolence hath no control'.
Xot half so dreary or so desolate
A hu'nan form in marble stillness laid. Where eyes have ceased to beam, with joy elate,
And jiale, dumb lips their parting prayer have said, — Where all that once was lovely, has become Food for the worms, a mold'ring tenant for the tomb.
Not half so dismal as when life still lingers Bright in its currents round a callous heart,
Yet all untouched by soothing angel lingers Slumbers the mnte soul ; having no sweet part
In that deep joy which goodness can bestow
On virtue's votaries, while they wander here below.
Shines not from Heaven the glorious orb of day '!
Blooms not the earth with choicest, f aii-est flowers V Ring not the woodlands with a long array
Of happy voices, mingling music's j^owersV While rolling rivers in sweet concert glide, AVave after wave, to join old Ocean's heaving tide.
Yet there are eyes, 'mid all this light from Heaven, See not the flowers that strew the lap of earth.
And ears to which the forest-song is given
In vain. They have not known the spirit-birtli.
That wakes the soul to all that 's good and true.
And lends to life a charm which nothing can subdue.
Oh, 't is a humbling, sad and solenm sight
To look upon a shriveled worshiper Of mannnon, love-forgotten 'neath the might
Of a darksome dream, — a waking- nightmare, — A weight that crushes in its icy thrall The fondest hopes whicii brigliten life terrestrial.
And when upon the darkness of the soul
The light of Mercy hath not power to shine ;
And aspirations seek no higher goal
Tnan narrow self — thvn moral death doth twine
Its withered wreath, and spirit-life hath fled ;
And Faith is voiceless to the parched and lone and dead.
But where is found a heart attuned to love,
To sympathize, to pity and to feel. And a kind hand, not slow l;ut prompt to move
From the crushed soul the poison of its weal, And jiour sweet l>alm upon the wounded heart. There deathless life is found, and there of Heaven a part.
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