Sweet is the tomb—the all-forgetting tomb—
The dreamless couch round which no phantoms glide,
To harrow up the soul, or read a doom,
Of yore on their dread Sabbath prophesied.
Calm are its slumbers—never more shall pride,
Hatred or malice, wound the sleeping clay;
Wrong not the dead—they should be deified—
They lived and suffered, and have passed away;
Here be all feuds forgot—ye, too, shall have your day.
Your day of trouble, when the cup of Grief,