Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven,
The radiant gate of heaven
Unfolded—and the stern, dark shadow cast
By death’s o’ersweeping wing, from the earth’s bosom past.
And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand,
Girt with the slumber of the hamlet’s dead,
Time, with a soft and reconciling hand,
The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread
O’er every narrow bed:
But not by time, and not by nature sown