Poems (Cook)/Stanzas.—The Tomb

by Eliza Cook

 

STANZAS.—THE TOMB.

Few years ago I shunn'd the tomb,
 And turn'd me from a tablet-stone;
I shiver'd in the churchyard gloom,
 And sicken'd at a bleaching bone.

Then all were round my warm young heart—
 The kindred tie—the cherish'd form;
I knew not what it was to part,
 And give them to the dust and worm.

But soon I lost the gems of earth,
 I saw the dearest cold in death:
And sorrow changed my joyous mirth
 To searing drops and sobbing breath.

I stood by graves all dark and deep,
 Pale, voiceless, rapt in mute despair;
I left my soul's adored to sleep
 In stirless, dreamless slumber there.

And now I steal at night to see
 The soft clear moonbeams playing o'er
Their hallow'd beds, and long to be
 Where all most prized have gone before.

Now I can calmly gaze around
 On osier'd heaps, with yearning eye,
And murmur o'er the grassy mound—
 "'Tis a glorious privilege to die!"

The grave hath lost its conquering might,
 And death its dreaded sting of pain,
Since they but ope the path of light
 To lead me to the loved again.