The village church is passing gay, The bells gush out in merry tune, A flag is o'er the turret gray, The porch holds all the flowers of June: For Youth and Beauty come to wed, With bounding form and beaming eye— With all the rapture Love can shed, And all the hope that Gold can buy; And children twine with noisy glee, White favours round the cypress-tree.
An old man sitteth on a grave; His steps no more are firm and fast: And slenderly his white locks wave, As breeze and butterfly go past, A gentle smile lights up his face, And then he turns to gaze around; For he has come to choose the place Where he shall sleep in hallow'd ground: "Just by yon daisy patch," saith he, "'Tis there, 'tis there, I'd have it be."
The bridal hearts in triumph glow, With all the world before them yet; The old man's pulse beats calm and slow, Like sun rays, lengthening as they set. They see the fancied hours to come; He sees the real days gone by: They deem the earth a fairy home; He thinks it well that man should die. Oh goodly sight—it should be so— Youth glad to stay—age fit to go!
