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October 8, 1848

Remote, romantic, solitary spot,
Where sleep the dead--removed, but not forgot!
Where the loved ashes of the lost ones lie,
Tears o'er their grave--their memory a sigh!
A father's worth, although not known to fame;
And what a magic in a mother's name;--
The harebell lifts its humble head in spring,
When gaily o'er the young flowers song-birds sing,
While Summer's glories in their beauty wave,
But faded leaves become the silent grave!
'Tis Autumn now!--and short the sun's bright beams--
Sad leaves fall thick--an epitaph each seems,
In colours bright'ning, or in tint that dies,
Each o'er its tuf-clad grave proclaims--"Here lies
A child, to better lands thus early gone,
Before, perhaps, the evil years come on;
A parent gathered to his last abode,
Though dust be here, the spirit's up to God!
A brother, sister, sleeping thus below,
While round their 'narrow house' the mourners go!
An honoured patron, or a loving friend,
This is their resting place--this is their end!"
How calm the churchyard on this solemn day,
Silence secure, and busy world away,
Unless half broken by the Sabbath bell,
Whose tones no echo from the stillness tell.
Shades of the dead! in melancholy bloom
Around you still some flowers take from your gloom,
To show that though Death's Winter reigneth here,
Hope's Spring shall bloom when Joy's eterne is near;
What time, or late or soon, when life's round 's o'er,
And I must walk this waking world no more,
Here let me lie--this be my place of rest,
Where sleep the weary, and repose the blest!