A Poem by an Unknown late 19th Century Irish Poet
Again, with joy I view the waking shore,
Where mem’ries live for ever in their green,
And from the solemn graveyard’s checkered floor
Gaze fondly o’er the all-enchanting scene.
The same sad rooks awake their mocking cries,
And drooping willows weep the early grave,
As o’er the dead the restless spirit flies,
Tries vainly yet yon broken heart to save.
But, hush! sad soul, nor leave this hallowed spot,
Where peaceful slumber seals the closèd eye.
The lonely sleeper now awaken not
By the rude raving, or the deep-drawn sigh.
Oh, let me mourn (the fainting heart replies),
These new-made graves, which take my wond’ring sight;
Say, who beneath this little tombstone lies,
Or who this Angel guards through the long night.
When last I saw, no mounds lay heaving there,
No sexton rude had turned the resting sod.
Alas, how changed! The holy and the fair
Have sunk in death and triumphed in their God.
Then let me pause, if here my Maker stays,
And guards his saints from the inhuman foe.
His word is true; my trembling heart obeys;
Bless’d are the dead who to the Saviour go.
Now new refulgence breathes o’er all the scene;
Yon lark’s sweet warble now is sweeter still;
Yon blady grass stands out in purer green;
And softer music tinkles from the rill.
For why? O mark! The cause is written here;
The pale-faced marble tells the softened tale,
That sweeteneth the sigh, arrests the starting tear,
And lulls to silence the untimely wail.
