The storm, and sweet the sunshine when 'tis past. Lo, the clouds roll away-they break-they fly,
And, like the glorious light of summer, cast O'er the wide landscape from the embracing sky, On all the peaceful world the smile of heaven shall lie. K 3
THE BURIAL-PLACE-A FRAGMENT.
EREWHILE, on England's pleasant shores, our sires Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades Or blossoms; and indulgent to the strong And natural dread of man's last home, the grave, Its frost and silence--they disposed around, To sooth the melancholy spirit that dwelt Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues Of vegetable beauty.-There the yew, Green even amid the snows of winter, told Of immortality, and gracefully
The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped; And there the gadding woodbine crept about, And there the ancient ivy. From the spot Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years, Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands That trembled as they placed her there, the rose Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke Her graces, than the proudest monument. And children set about their playmate's grave On the infant's little bed,
The pansy. Wet at its planting with maternal tears, Emblem of early sweetness, early death,
Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames, And maids that would not raise the reddened eye, Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy Fled early,silent lovers, who had given
All that they lived for to the arms of earth, Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers. The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone, In his wide temple of the wilderness,
Brought not these simple customs of the heart With them. It might be, while they laid their dead By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves,
And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers About their graves; and the familiar shades
Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms, And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known, And rarely in our borders may you meet The tall larch, sighing in the burying-place, Or willow, trailing low its boughs to hide The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves And melancholy ranks of monuments
Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between, Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh, Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand, In vain-they grow too near the dead. Nature, rebuking the neglect of man,
Plants often, by the ancient mossy stone,
The brier rose, and upon the broken turf
That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry vine Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth Her ruddy, pouting fruit.
WHEN beechen buds begin to swell, And woods the blue-bird's warble know
The yellow violet's modest bell
Peeps from the last year's leaves below.
Ere russet fields their green resume, Sweet flower, I love, in forest bare, To meet thee, when thy faint perfume Alone is in the virgin air.
Of all her train, the hands of Spring First plant thee in the watery mould, And I have seen thee blossoming
Beside the snow-bank's edges cold.
Thy parent sun, who bade thee view
Pale skies, and chilling moisture sip, Has bathed thee in his own bright hue, And streaked with jet thy glowing lip.
Yet slight thy form, and low thy seat, And earthward bent thy gentle eye, Unapt the passing view to meet,
When loftier flowers are flaunting nigh.
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