FOR THE RURAL MAGAZINE.
Whether the result of education and early associations, or derived immediately from Nature herself, there is excited in every bosom possessed of sensibility, a sensation of awe and veneration, when approaching the mansions of the dead. Here the storm of passion subsides into peace; and even savage ferocity, when contemplating the house appointed for all living, is moulded into mildness and mercy. Who does not delight to behold the verdant hillock, which designates the spot, where the remains of a dear friend or relative are deposited, decorated with vernal beauty, and alike protected from the withering inroads of neglect, and the rude approach of violence? There is a chord in every feeling heart, which vibrates in unison with the magic touch of memory when delineating in vivid colours, some departed object of our love and affection. The GRAVE-YARD furnishes a scene, in which memory is necessarily a prominent actor.
THE GRAVES OF MY FATHERS.
Evergreen be the spot where in silence reposing,
The bones of my fathers so tranquilly sleep,
Let no hostile foot-step with rudeness imposing,
Disturb the fond vigils affection shall keep.
Leave to monarchs their pageants of pomp and of glory,
To heroes their laurels all dripping with tears,
Give to Jackson his fame in the pages of story,
Where the wrong of the Indian abhorrent appears;
Let the relics of princes whose names are enshrouded,
In the gloom and the darkness of Egypt's long night,
Be distinguish'd by tombs on whose summits beclouded,
The eagle seeks rest in her towering flight:
But spare, oh but spare me, that hallow'd enclosure,
Which spring will soon visit with aspect serene,
Where the earliest sunbeam to April's exposure,
Shall bespangle with flow'rets her favourite scene.
While the songsters of nature with voices in chorus,
Attuned to those feelings which nature inspires,
And that moss-cover'd temple arising before us,
Will quell all those rebels—our vicious desires: