Spirits of the Dead
Thy soul shall find itself alone'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstoneNot one, of all the crowd, to pryInto thine hour of secrecy.Be silent in that solitudeWhich is not loneliness--for thenThe spirits of the dead who stoodIn life before thee are againIn death around thee--and their willShall overshadow thee: be still.The night--tho' clear--shall frown--And the stars shall not look downFrom their high thrones in the Heaven,With light like Hope to mortals given--But their red orbs, without beam,To thy weariness shall seemAs a burning and a feverWhich would cling to thee forever.Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish--Now are visions ne'er to vanish--From thy spirit shall they passNo more--like dew-drops from the grass.The breeze--the breath of God--is still--And the mist upon the hillShadowy--shadowy--yet unbroken,Is a symbol and a token--How it hangs upon the trees,A mystery of mysteries!
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