With pensive steps I reach’d the pile,
    Where well wrought limbs return to clay;
  And tow’ring marble’s pompous style
    Points out the great, the rich, the gay.

  But where’s ambition’s piercing eye,
    His restless look, his haughty air? 
  They’re vanish’d all, and near him lie
    Frames that once fed on black despair.

  What though the marble’s rais’d o’er one,
    To tell his former wealth or worth,
  While a green turf, or mossy stone,
    Denote the man of humbler birth.

  Yet all in silence mould’ring lie
    In the cold grave where vapors glide,
  The beggar here’s as fair as he
    Who rolled in wealth, or swam in pride.

  ’Neath a green mound there slept a youth,
    Whose form in life in beauty bloom’d: 
  His manner sweet, his speech was truth,
    But nought could save him from the tomb.

  At little distance from his side,
    A wild rose shed a pearly tear
  O’er her who would have been his bride,
    Had not dread death been thus severe.

  I mus’d in silence on their fate,
    And watch’d the graves where low they lie,
  Reflecting on their altered state. 
    From nuptial bliss to mould’ring clay,

  And such, methinks, the lot of all;
    We picture joys with eager eye,
  ’Till death’s damp curtains round us fall,
    And silent in his arms we lie.

  Beneath a verdant, grassy mound,
    Where gemmed with dew the daisy weeps;
  In death’s cold slumber wrapped profound,
    A gentle mother peaceful sleeps.

  No storied urn bespeaks her worth. 
    No epitaph or stone is near;
  But the wild flow’rs that strew the earth,
    Are watered oft by many a tear.

  And oh, such tribute is more dear—­
    Warm gushing from affection’s eye,
  Than the cold marble’s senseless praise,
    That sheds no tear—­that heaves no sigh.

  A little path is closely worn,
    Where prattling children often stray,
  And o’er their sainted mother mourn,
    To shield her memory from decay.

  And hoary age has sunk to rest,
    Deep buried ’neath the crumbling sod;
  No anxious cares disturb his breast,—­
    His ransom’d soul has flown to God.

  Weary and sad, he struggled on
     Life’s rugged pathway, till its close;
  And then, in death, lay calmly down,
     To slumber in its deep repose.

  I turn’d to view a little grave,
     Where infant sweetness silent slept;
  There the tall myrtle mournful way’d,—­
     The willow there in sorrow slept.

  “Sleep on,” I cried, “thy little breast
     Ne’er knew the heartfelt woes of men;
  No pain or care disturb thy rest,
     Or jarring scenes obstruct thy ken.

  “Happy, like thee, might I resign
     This life in Virtue’s purest ray,
  And spring to life and joy divine,
  Free from this cumbrous load of clay.