Tread lightly!- for the sanctity of death

Broods with a voiceless influence on the air:

Stern, yet serene!-a reconciling spell,
Each troubled billow of the soul to quell.

Leave me to linger silently awhile!—

Not for the light that pours its fervid streams Of rainbow glory down through arch and aisle, Kindling old banners into haughty gleams, Flushing proud shrines, or by some warrior's tomb Dying away in clouds of gorgeous gloom:

Not for rich music, though in triumph pealing, Mighty as forest sounds when winds are high ; Nor yet for torch, and cross, and stole, revealing Through incense-mists their sainted pageantry :Though o'er the spirit each hath charm and power, Yet not for these I ask one lingering hour.

But by strong sympathies, whose silver cord
Links me to mortal weal, my soul is bound;
Thoughts of the human hearts, that here have pour'd
Their anguish forth, are with me and around ;-
I look back on the pangs, the burning tears,
Known to these altars of a thousand years.

Send up a murmur from the dust, Remorse!

That here hast bow'd, with ashes on thy head:

And thou, still battling with the tempest's force

Thou, whose bright spirit through all time has bledSpeak, wounded Love! if penance here, or prayer, Hath laid one haunting shadow of despair!

No voice, no breath!-of conflicts past, no trace!-
Doth not this hush give answer to my quest ?
Surely the dread religion of the place

By every grief hath made its might confest!-
Oh! that within my heart I could but keep

Holy to Heaven a spot thus pure, and still, and deep!

WILFORD CHURCHYARD.

HERE would I wish to sleep.

This is the spot

Which I have long mark'd out to lay my bones in.
Tired out and wearied with the riotous world,
Beneath this yew I would be sepulchred.
It is a lovely spot! The sultry sun,
From his meridian height, endeavours vainly
To pierce the shadowy foliage, while the zephyr
Comes wafting gently o'er the rippling Trent,
And plays about my wan cheek. 'Tis a nook
Most pleasant. Such a one perchance did Gray
Frequent, as with a vagrant muse he wanton'd.

Come, I will sit me down and meditate,
For I am wearied with my summer's walk;
And here I may repose in silent ease;

And thus, perchance, when life's sad journey's o'er,
My harass'd soul in this same spot may find

The haven of its rest-beneath this sod

Perchance may sleep it sweetly, sound as death.

I would not have my corpse cemented down
With brick and stone, defrauding the poor carth-worm
Of its predestined dues; no, I would lie

Beneath a little hillock, grass o'ergrown,

Swath'd down with osiers, just as sleep the cottars.

Yet may not undistinguish'd be my grave;

WILFORD CHURCHYARD.

181

But there at eve may some congenial soul
Duly resort, and shed a pious tear,

The good man's benison !-no more I ask.
And, oh! (if heavenly beings may look down
From where, with cherubim, inspired they sit,
Upon this little dim-discover'd spot,

The earth) then will I cast a glance below
On him who thus my ashes shall embalm;

And I will weep too, and will bless the wanderer,
Wishing he may not long be doom'd to pine
In this low-thoughted world of darkling woc,
But that, ere long, be reached his kindred skies.
Yet 'twas a silly thought, as if the body,
Mouldering beneath the surface of the earth,
Could taste the sweets of summer scenery
And feel the freshness of the balmy breeze!
Yet nature speaks within the human bosom,
And, spite of reason, bids it look beyond
His narrow verge of being, and provide
A decent residence for its clayey shell,
Endear'd to it by time. And who would lay
His body in the city burial-place,

To be thrown up again by some rude sexton,
And yield its narrow house another tenant,
Ere the moist flesh had mingled with the dust,
Ere the tenacious hair had left the scalp,
Exposed to insult lewd, and wantonness?
No, I will lay me in the village ground:

There are the dead respected. The poor hind,
Unletter'd as he is, would scorn to invade
The silent resting-place of death. I've seen
The labourer, returning from his toil,

Here stay his steps, and call his children round,
And slowly spell the rudely-sculptured rhymes,
And, in his rustic manner, moralise.

I've mark'd with what a silent awe he'd spoken,
With head uncover'd, his respectful manner,
And all the honours which he paid the grave;
And thought on cities, where e'en cemeteries,
Bestrew'd with all the emblems of mortality,
Are not protected from the drunken insolence
Of wassailers profane, and wanton havoc.
Grant, Heaven, that here my pilgrimage may close!
Yet, if this be denied, where'er my bones

May lie or in the city's crowded bounds,

Or scatter'd wide o'er the huge sweep of waters,
Or left a prey on some deserted shore

To the rapacious cormorant,-yet still,

(For why should sober reason cast away

A thought which soothes the soul?) yet still my spirit Shall wing its way to these my native regions,

And hover o'er this spot. Oh, then I'll think

Of times when I was seated 'neath this yew,
In solemn rumination; and will smile.
With joy that I have got my long'd release.

KIRKE WHITE.