The Cemetery in Summer

The west wind in the piny bough A low eternal threne Weaves o’er the dead that sleep below The sleep without a dream. The night-leaved cypress’ shadow glooms, The flexile willow sighs, While gorgeous summer glows and blooms In florid earth and skies.

On marble shaft and urnal stone Glimmers the sunny beam, And squirrels chirp and wild bees drone About the alleys green. Through leafy vistas, long and dim, Where slanting sunlights fall, I see a troop of spectres thin, In cerement, shroud, and pall.

Shades insubstantial gliding slow, The harvest of the years, Above whose narrow dwellings flow Bereaved affection’s tears. The din of life from yonder towers Is but a murmur here; A bee-like hum amid the flowers, It falls upon mine ear.

Ye tranquil sleepers, stretched below, How pleasant is your rest! Your pulseless hearts no longer know The cares which life infest. The silent Hours no longer bring Or good or ill to you; And slander’s shaft no more can sting The slumberer ’neath the yew.

In cool seclusion dark and deep, Beneath the teeming mould, Ye reck not of the summer’s heat, The sleety winter’s cold. The constellated stars at night Through waving branches gleam, And Titan’s arrows, swift and bright, Across your couches stream.

Sepulchral Eros, mourning here Forgetful of thy bow, With torch reversed and falling tear, And pinion-shaded brow! The eyes are dim beneath your tread, That sunned you with their light; The lips, where you on kisses fed, Are cold and lily-white.

All hail, my gentle household Lar! My silent mansion ’mid the trees! My devious steps have wandered far, O’er lands of Eld beyond the seas.

Amid thine autumn fields I hear, Prophet of rain, the whistling quail; While from its sheaf the wheaten ear Is beaten by the sounding flail.

In other climes this quiet home Has risen star-like to my view, When tired, dejected, and alone, No friendly heart my sorrows knew.

’Twas years ago the passion came, A vague desire, a longing wild To visit lands, whose wondrous fame Had charmed my fancy when a child.

When dreamy south winds softly blew In spring time o’er the misty glebe, And birds of passage wedge-like flew To distant lake and arctic mead,

I felt the longing uncontrolled, The yearning wish to be away, Where splendid cities rich and old In happier climates glittering lay.

Their towers have filled my sated eyes, Their sins and follies all are known, With quickened step the pilgrim hies To greet once more his long-left home.

O silent house! O breezy shade! Haven of rest and refuge sweet! The great world’s din can ne’er invade Thy lonely courts, my green retreat!

Like Sirmio’s minstrel travel-worn, My own soft couch at length I press, And thinking o’er the toils I’ve borne, Forget in sleep my weariness.