Lines Written on Visiting the Grave of a Venerated Friend

Lines Written on Visiting the Grave of a Venerated Friend

Deep in this grave, her bones remain, -
She's sleeping on bereft of pain, -
Her tongue in silence now does sleep,
And she no more times call can greet.

She lived, as all God's saints should do,
Resigned to death, and suffering too:
She feel's not pain, nor sin oppress'd,
Nor is of worldly cares possess'd.

White were the locks that thinly shed
Their snows around her honor'd head,
And furrows not to be effaced,
Had ago amid her features traced.

I said, my sister, DO tread light,
Faint as the star that gleams at night,
Nor pluck the tender leaves that wave
In sweetness o'er this sainted grave.

The rose I've planted by her side,
It tells me of that fate decried,
And bids us all prepare to die,
For that our doom is hast'ning nigh.

Oh! that the gale that sweeps the heath
Too roughly o'er your leaves should breathe,
Then sigh for her, - and when you bloom,
Scather your fragrance o'er her tomb.

Alone I've wander'd through the gloom
To pour my lays upon her tomb:
And I have mourn'd to see her bed
With brambles and with thorns o'erspread.

O! surely, round her place of rest
I will not let the weed be blest,
It is not meet that she should be
Forgotten or unblest by me

My sister said, "tell of this grave;"
Go ask, said I, the thoughtless wave,
And spend one hour in anxious care,
In duty, penitence, and prayer.

Farewell! let memory bestow,
That all may soon be laid as low,
For out of dust we were composed,
And turn to dust, to sleep, repose.

Hartford, August 31st, 1840.

Ann Plato

New Series 1:27, p. 4

1840.09.05