Poems (Cook)/My Grave

by Eliza Cook

MY GRAVE.

Sweet is the ocean grave, under the azure wave,
 Where the rich coral the sea-grot illumes;
Where pearls and amber meet, decking the winding-sheet
 Making the sailor's the brightest of tombs.

Let the proud soldier rest, wrapt in his gory vest,
 Where he may happen to fall on his shield.
To sink in the glory-strife, was his first hope in life;
 Dig him his grave on the red battle-field.

Lay the one great and rich, in the strong cloister niche;
 Give him his coffin of cedar and gold;
Let the wild torchlight fall, flouting the velvet pall;
 Lock him in marble vault, darksome and cold.

But there's a sunny hill, fondly remember'd still;
 Crown'd with fair grass and a bonnie elm tree:
Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf;
 There be the resting-place chosen by me!

Though the long formal prayer ne'er has been utter'd there,
 Though the robed priest has not hallow'd the sod;
Yet would I dare to ask any in saintly mask,
 "Where is the spot that's unwatch'd by a God!"

There the wind loud and strong whistles its winter song;
 Shrill in its wailing and fierce in its sweep;
'Tis music now sweet and dear, loved by my soul and ear;
 Let it breathe on where I sleep the last sleep.

There in the summer days rest the bright flashing rays,
 There spring the wild flowers— fair as can be;
Daisy and pimpernel, lily and cowslip bell,
 These be the grave flowers chosen by me.

There would I lie alone, mark'd by no sculptur'd stone:
 Few will regret when my spirit departs;
And I loathe the vain, charnel fame, praising an empty name;
 Dear, after all, but to two or three hearts.

Who does not turn and laugh at the false epitaph,
 Painting man spotless and pure as the dove?
If aught of goodly worth grace my career on earth;
 All that I heed, is its record above.

Tis on that sunny hill, fondly remember'd still;
 Where my young footsteps climb'd, happy and free:
Fresh as the foamy surf, sacred as churchyard turf—
 There be the sleeping-place chosen by me.