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!

HENRY WADSWORTH LONGFELLOW.

SLEEPY HOLLOW.

No abbey’s gloom, nor dark cathedral-stoops,
  No winding torches paint the midnight air;
Here the green pines delight, the aspen droops
  Along the modest pathways, and those fair
Pale asters of the season spread their plumes
  Around this field, fit garden for our tombs.

And shalt thou pause to hear some funeral bell
  Slow stealing o’er thy heart in this calm place,
Not with a throb of pain, a feverish knell,
  But in its kind and supplicating grace,
It says, Go, pilgrim, on thy march, be more
  Friend to the friendless than thou wast before;

Learn from the loved one’s rest serenity: 
  To-morrow that soft bell for thee shall sound,
And thou repose beneath the whispering tree,
  One tribute more to this submissive ground;—­
Prison thy soul from malice, bar out pride,
  Nor these pale flowers nor this still field deride: 

Rather to those ascents of being turn,
  Where a ne’er-setting sun illumes the year
Eternal, and the incessant watch-fires burn
  Of unspent holiness and goodness clear,—­
Forget man’s littleness, deserve the best,
  God’s mercy in thy thought and life confest.

WILLIAM ELLERY CHANNING.

THE QUAKER GRAVEYARD.

Four straight brick walls, severely plain,
  A quiet city square surround;
A level space of nameless graves,—­
  The Quakers’ burial-ground.

In gown of gray, or coat of drab,
  They trod the common ways of life,
With passions held in sternest leash,
  And hearts that knew not strife.

To yon grim meeting-house they fared,
  With thoughts as sober as their speech,
To voiceless prayer, to songless praise,
  To hear the elders preach.

Through quiet lengths of days they came,
  With scarce a change to this repose;
Of all life’s loveliness they took
  The thorn without the rose.

But in the porch and o’er the graves,
  Glad rings the southward robin’s glee,
And sparrows fill the autumn air
  With merry mutiny;

While on the graves of drab and gray
  The red and gold of autumn lie,
And wilful Nature decks the sod
  In gentlest mockery.

SILAS WEIR MITCHELL.

GREENWOOD CEMETERY.

How calm they sleep beneath the shade
  Who once were weary of the strife,
And bent, like us, beneath the load
    Of human life!