A Cyclopædia of Sacred Poetical Quotations / Consisting of Choice Passages from the Sacred Poetry of All Ages and Countries, Classified and Arranged, for Facility of Reference, Under Subject Headings; Illustrated by Striking Passages from Scripture, and Forming Altogether a Complete Book of Devotional Poetry.

by Unknown

GRAVE—TOMB.

The Lord killeth, and maketh alive: he bringeth down to the grave, and bringeth up.—I. Samuel, ii. 6.

God will redeem my soul from the power of the grave: for he shall receive me.—Psalm xlix. 15.

Whatsoever thy hand findeth to do, do it with thy might; for there is no work, nor device, nor knowledge, nor wisdom, in the grave, whither thou goest.—Ecclesiastes, ix. 10.

I will ransom them from the power of the grave: I will redeem them from death: O death, I will be thy plagues; O grave, I will be thy destruction.—Hosea, xiii. 14.

When self-esteem, or other’s adulation,

Would cunningly persuade us we are something

Above the common level of our kind;

The grave gainsays the smooth-complexion’d flatt’ry,

And with blunt truth acquaints us what we are.

Blair.

Dull grave! thou spoil’st the dance of youthful blood,

Strik’st out the dimple from the cheek of mirth,

And every smirking feature from the face;

Branding out laughter with the name of madness.

Blair.

All at rest now—all dust!—wave flows on wave,

But the sea dries not! What to us the grave?

It brings no real homily; we sigh,

Pause for awhile, and murmur “all must die;”

Then rush to pleasure, action, sin, once more,

Swell the loud tide, and fret unto the shore.

Sir E. B. Lytton.

Oh! for a heart that seeks the sacred gloom

That hovers round the precincts of the tomb!

While fancy, musing there, sees visions bright,—

In death discovering life, in darkness, light.

What though the chilling blasts of winter’s day

Forbid the garden longer to be gay?

Of winter yet I’ll not refuse to sing,

Thus to be followed by eternal spring.

Leigh Richmond.

What is the Grave of Pride? Is it to lie

’Neath sculptured marble, where the night-winds sigh

Through solemn arches, and ’mid pillars tall,

The while the pallid moonbeams coldly fall

On shrine, and urn, and “animated bust,”

The vain memorials all of “dust to dust?”

Is it to lie with hands uprear’d in prayer,

As many a warrior rests in sculpture rare;

His banner floating o’er the chisell’d stone,

’Neath which, long ages since, he laid him down,

To fear no battle-cry, nor trumpet call,

Till on his startled ear the peal shall fall,

That from the storied tomb, or daisied sod,

Death’s sleepers shall awake to meet their God?

Then will it seek not, if in minster-pile,

While music roll’d through each time-honour’d aisle,

And choral hymnings swell the flood of sound,

That rose and fell through all the vaults around;

Or if beneath some village yew-tree’s shade,

The child of earth to his long rest were laid.

The marble tomb must yield its treasured trust,

The grass-grown grave give up the sleeping dust.

Mary Milner.

I like that ancient Saxon phrase which calls

The burial-ground, God’s Acre! It is just;

It consecrates each grave within its walls,

And breathes a benison o’er the sleeping dust.

Into its furrows shall we all be cast,

In the sure faith that we shall rise again

At the great harvest, when the Archangel’s blast

Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain.

Longfellow.

’Tis a blessing to live, but a greater to die,

And the best of the world, is its path to the sky,—

Be it gloomy or bright, for the life that He gave

Let us thank Him—but blessed be God for the grave!

’Tis the end of our toil, ’tis the crown of our bliss,

’Tis the portal of happiness—aye, but for this,

How hopeless were sorrow, how narrow were love,

If they looked not from earth to the rapture above!

J. K. Mitchell.

Come unto the churchyard near:

Where the gentle, whispering breeze

Softly rustleth through the trees;

Where the moonbeam pure and white,

Falls in floods of cloudless light,

Bathing many a turfy heap

Where the lowlier slumberers sleep;

And the graceful willow waves,

Banner-like, o’er nameless graves:

Here hath prayer arisen like dew,—

Here the earth is holy, too,

Lightly press each grassy mound:

Surely this is hallowed ground.

M. A. Browne.

Through these branched walks will contemplation wind,

And grave wise Nature’s teachings on his mind;

As the white grave-stones glimmer to his eye,

A solemn voice will thrill him, “Thou must die!”

When autumn’s tints are glittering in the air,

That voice will whisper to his soul “Prepare!”

When winter’s snows are spread o’er hill and dell,

“Oh, this is death!” that solemn voice will swell;

But when with spring, streams leap, and blossoms wave,

“Hope, Christian, hope,” ’twill say, “there’s life beyond the grave.”

Alfred B. Street.

The voice of prayer at the sable bier!

A voice to sustain, to soothe, and to cheer.

It commends the spirit to God who gave;

It lifts the thoughts from the cold, dark grave;

It points to the glory where He shall reign

Who whispered, “Thy brother shall rise again!”

Henry Ware, Jun.

Yes! it is a certain sleep,

Where dreams of woe can ne’er intrude;

Ah! if no earthly passion creep

Into its solemn solitude.

If there at length we cease to feel

Each pang, which living rends the breast;

Who would not from this vain world steal

Into the silent grave to rest?

Arthur Brook.