Poems (Howard)/The Old Burying Ground
The Old Burying Ground.
O an old, old place it is, Landmark of the centuries! Damp with mold, and dark with shade As secluded cloisters where, Screened by stately colonnade, Holy monks devotions paid; Or upon mosaics bare Vestal virgins knelt in prayer.
Hidden in the very heart Of the busy bustling mart, Where Life's ever-surging tide, Restless as the mighty sea, Scarce its ripples doth divide; Save perchance when one aside Turns from curiosity, Some ancestral tomb to see.
Oldest habitant knows not First when this sequestered spot Broken by the sexton's spade Place of sepulture became; Knoweth not if man or maid In its primal cell was laid— So, in Death, dissolveth fame And the prestige of a name.
Under those columnar trees May not aborigines, Sachems of their dusky clan, Pow-wow counselors, have let Hatred of the pale-faced man Circumvent all peaceful plan— Or their malice to forget Smoked the fragrant calumet?
Native traders may have come Bartering wampum-shells for rum— Or in lieu of ready cash Tendered baneful nicotine; Drinking from the calabash Fire-water, making rash Promises that sequel-seen, Proved them treacherous and mean.
Here our sires beneath the sod—Blest reposure!—"rest in God"; So we read upon the stones Crumbling, leaning out of place, Moldering like sepulchered bones, Tottering like terrestrial thrones, While the saints whose names we trace Stand before the Father's face.