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. God's-Acre! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those, who in the grave have Their bread of life, alas ! no more their own. 252 MISCELLANEOUS, Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith, that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the arch-angel's blast Shall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. Then shall the good stand in immortal bloom, In the fair gardens of that second birth; And each bright blossom, mingle its perfume With that of flowers, which never bloomed. on earth. With thy rude ploughshare, Death, turn up the sod, And spread the furrow for the seed we suw; This is the field and Acre of our God. This is the place, where to harvests grow! O TO THE RIVER CHARLES. RIVER! that in silence windest Through the meadows, bright and free, Till at length thy rest thou findest In the bosom of the sea! Four long years of mingled feeling, Thou hast taught me, Silent Rive Oft in sadness and in illness, I have watched thy current glide, Till the beauty of its stillness Overflowed me, like a tide. And in better hours and brighter, I have felt my heart beat lighter, Not for this alone I love thee, Nor because, thy waves of blue From celestial seas above thee Take their own celestial hue. Where yon shadowy woodlands hide thee, And thy waters disappear, Friends I love have dwelt beside thee, And have made thy margin dear. TO THE RIVER CHARLES. More than this;-thy name reminds me Friends my soul with joy remembers! On the hearth-stone of my heart! 'T is for this, thou Silent Kiver! Take this idle song from me. 255 |