A Poem Dedication of the Pittsfield Cemetery

ANGEL of Death! extend thy silent reign!

Stretch thy dark sceptre o’er this new domain

No sable car along the winding road

Has borne to earth its unresisting load;

No sudden mound has risen yet to show

Where the pale slumberer folds his arms below;

No marble gleams to bid his memory live

In the brief lines that hurrying Time can give;

Yet, O Destroyer! from thy shrouded throne

Look on our gift; this realm is all thine own!

Fair is the scene; its sweetness oft beguiled

From their dim paths the children of the wild;

The dark-haired maiden loved its grassy dells,

The feathered warrior claimed its wooded swells,

Still on its slopes the ploughman’s ridges show

The pointed flints that left his fatal bow,

Chipped with rough art and slow barbarian toil,—­

Last of his wrecks that strews the alien soil!

Here spread the fields that heaped their ripened store

Till the brown arms of Labor held no more;

The scythe’s broad meadow with its dusky blush;

The sickle’s harvest with its velvet flush;

The green-haired maize, her silken tresses laid,

In soft luxuriance, on her harsh brocade;

The gourd that swells beneath her tossing plume;

The coarser wheat that rolls in lakes of bloom,—­

Its coral stems and milk-white flowers alive

With the wide murmurs of the scattered hive;

Here glowed the apple with the pencilled streak

Of morning painted on its southern cheek;

The pear’s long necklace strung with golden drops,

Arched, like the banian, o’er its pillared props;

Here crept the growths that paid the laborer’s care

With the cheap luxuries wealth consents to spare;

Here sprang the healing herbs which could not save

The hand that reared them from the neighboring grave.

Yet all its varied charms, forever free

From task and tribute, Labor yields to thee

No more, when April sheds her fitful rain,

The sower’s hand shall cast its flying grain;

No more, when Autumn strews the flaming leaves,

The reaper’s band shall gird its yellow sheaves;

For thee alike the circling seasons flow

Till the first blossoms heave the latest snow.

In the stiff clod below the whirling drifts,

In the loose soil the springing herbage lifts,

In the hot dust beneath the parching weeds,

Life’s withering flower shall drop its shrivelled seeds;

Its germ entranced in thy unbreathing sleep

Till what thou sowest mightier angels reap!

Spirit of Beauty! let thy graces blend

With loveliest Nature all that Art can lend.

Come from the bowers where Summer’s life-blood flows

Through the red lips of June’s half-open rose,

Dressed in bright hues, the loving sunshine’s dower;

For tranquil Nature owns no mourning flower.

Come from the forest where the beech’s screen

Bars the fierce moonbeam with its flakes of green;

Stay the rude axe that bares the shadowy plains,

Stanch the deep wound That dries the maple’s veins.

Come with the stream whose silver-braided rills

Fling their unclasping bracelets from the hills,

Till in one gleam, beneath the forest’s wings,

Melts the white glitter of a hundred springs.

Come from the steeps where look majestic forth

From their twin thrones the Giants of the North

On the huge shapes, that, crouching at their knees,

Stretch their broad shoulders, rough with shaggy trees.

Through the wide waste of ether, not in vain,

Their softened gaze shall reach our distant plain;

There, while the mourner turns his aching eyes

On the blue mounds that print the bluer skies,

Nature shall whisper that the fading view

Of mightiest grief may wear a heavenly hue.

Cherub of Wisdom! let thy marble page

Leave its sad lesson, new to every age;

Teach us to live, not grudging every breath

To the chill winds that waft us on to death,

But ruling calmly every pulse it warms,

And tempering gently every word it forms.

Seraph of Love! in heaven’s adoring zone,

Nearest of all around the central throne,

While with soft hands the pillowed turf we spread

That soon shall hold us in its dreamless bed,

With the low whisper,—­Who shall first be laid

In the dark chamber’s yet unbroken shade?—­

Let thy sweet radiance shine rekindled here,

And all we cherish grow more truly dear.

Here in the gates of Death’s o’erhanging vault,

Oh, teach us kindness for our brother’s fault

Lay all our wrongs beneath this peaceful sod,

And lead our hearts to Mercy and its God.

FATHER of all! in Death’s relentless claim

We read thy mercy by its sterner name;

In the bright flower that decks the solemn bier,

We see thy glory in its narrowed sphere;

In the deep lessons that affliction draws,

We trace the curves of thy encircling laws;

In the long sigh that sets our spirits free,

We own the love that calls us back to Thee!

Through the hushed street, along the silent plain,

The spectral future leads its mourning train,

Dark with the shadows of uncounted bands,

Where man’s white lips and woman’s wringing hands

Track the still burden, rolling slow before,

That love and kindness can protect no more;

The smiling babe that, called to mortal strife,

Shuts its meek eyes and drops its little life;

The drooping child who prays in vain to live,

And pleads for help its parent cannot give;

The pride of beauty stricken in its flower;

The strength of manhood broken in an hour;

Age in its weakness, bowed by toil and care,

Traced in sad lines beneath its silvered hair.

The sun shall set, and heaven’s resplendent spheres

Gild the smooth turf unhallowed yet by tears,

But ah! how soon the evening stars will shed

Their sleepless light around the slumbering dead!

Take them, O Father, in immortal trust!

Ashes to ashes, dust to kindred dust,

Till the last angel rolls the stone away,

And a new morning brings eternal day!