In the city churchyard, where the grass
    Groweth rank and black, and where never a ray
    Of that self-same sun doth find its way
    Through the heaped-up houses’ serried mass—­
    Where the only sounds are the voice of the throng,
    And the clatter of wheels as they rush along—­
    Or the plash of the rain, or the wind’s hoarse cry,
    Or the busy tramp of the passer-by,
    Or the toll of the bell on the heavy air—­
        Good friends, let it be there!

    I am old, my friends—­I am very old—­
    Fourscore and five—­and bitter cold
    Were that air on the hill-side far away;
    Eighty full years, content, I trow,
    Have I lived in the home where ye see me now,
    And trod those dark streets day by day,
    Till my soul doth love them; I love them all,
    Each battered pavement, and blackened wall,
    Each court and corner.  Good sooth! to me
    They are all comely and fair to see—­
    They have old faces—­each one doth tell
    A tale of its own, that doth like me well—­
    Sad or merry, as it may be,
    From the quaint old book of my history. 
    And, friends, when this weary pain is past,
    Fain would I lay me to rest at last
    In their very midst;—­full sure am I,
    How dark soever be earth and sky,
    I shall sleep softly—­I shall know
    That the things I loved so here below
    Are about me still—­so never care
    That my last home looketh all bleak and bare—­
        Good friends, let it be there!

Some persons appear to think that it argues strength of mind and freedom from unworthy prejudice, to profess great indifference as to what becomes of their mortal part after they die.  I have met with men who talked in a vapouring manner about leaving their bodies to be dissected; and who evidently enjoyed the sensation which such sentiments produced among simple folk.  Whenever I hear any man talk in this way, my politeness, of course, prevents my telling him that he is an uncommonly silly person; but it does not prevent my thinking him one.  It is a mistake to imagine that the soul is the entire man.  Human nature, alike here and hereafter, consists of soul and body in union; and the body is therefore justly entitled to its own degree of thought and care.  But the point, indeed, is not one to be argued; it is, as it appears to me, a matter of intuitive judgment and instinctive feeling; and I apprehend that this feeling and judgment have never appeared more strongly than in the noblest of our race.  I hold by Burke, who wrote, ’I should like that my dust should mingle with kindred dust; the good old expression, “family burying-ground,” has something pleasing in it, at least to me.’  Mrs. Stone quotes Lady Murray’s account of the death of her mother, the celebrated Grissell Baillie, which shows that that strong-minded and noble-hearted woman felt the natural desire:—­