Poems . rk and dreary. GODS-ACRE. 261 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. GODS-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which callsThe burial-ground Gods-Acre ! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison oer
Poems . rk and dreary. GODS-ACRE. 261 My life is cold, and dark, and dreary;It rains, and the wind is never weary;My thoughts still cling to the mouldering Past,But the hopes of youth fall thick in the blast,And the days are dark and dreary. Be still, sad heart! and cease repining;Behind the clouds is the sun still shining;Thy fate is the common fate of all,Into each life some rain must fall, Some days must be dark and dreary. GODS-ACRE. I LIKE that ancient Saxon phrase, which callsThe burial-ground Gods-Acre ! It is just; It consecrates each grave within its walls, And breathes a benison oer the sleeping dust. Gods-Acre ! Yes, that blessed name imparts Comfort to those, who in the grave have sown The seed, that they had garnered in their hearts,Their bread of life, alas! no more their own. Into its furrows shall we all be cast, In the sure faith, that we shall rise again At the great harvest, when the archangels blastShall winnow, like a fan, the chaff and grain. I I ^62 MISCELLANEOUS ,J,J7£rHLif S 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 sow; This is the field and Acre of our God, This is the place, where human harvests grow! TO THE EIVEE 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,Half in rest, and half in strife, I have seen thy waters stealing Onward, like the stream of life.
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