Part 8 (2/2)

What! do I hear thy slender voice complain?

Thou wailest when I talk of beauty's light, As if it brought the memory of pain.

Thou art a wayward being--well--come near, And pour thy tale of sorrow in mine ear.

What say'st thou, slanderer! rouge makes thee sick?

And China Bloom at best is sorry food?

And Rowland's Kalydor, if laid on thick, Poisons the thirsty wretch that bores for blood.

Go! 'Twas a just reward that met thy crime- But shun the sacrilege another time.

That bloom was made to look at--not to touch; To wors.h.i.+p--not approach--that radiant white; And well might sudden vengeance light on such As dared, like thee, most impiously to bite.

Thou shouldst have gazed at distance and admired- Murmur'd thy admiration and retired.

Thou'rt welcome to the town--but why come here To bleed a brother poet, gaunt like thee?

Alas! the little blood I have is dear, And thin will be the banquet drawn from me.

Look round--the pale-eyed sisters in my cell, Thy old acquaintance, Song and Famine, dwell.

Try some plump alderman, and suck the blood Enrich'd by gen'rous wine and costly meat; On well-filled skins, sleek as thy native mud, Fix thy light pump, and press thy freckled feet.

Go to the men for whom, in ocean's halls, The oyster breeds and the green turtle sprawls.

There corks are drawn, and the red vintage flows.

To fill the swelling veins for thee, and now The ruddy cheek, and now the ruddier nose Shall tempt thee, as thou flittest round the brow; And when the hour of sleep its quiet brings, No angry hand shall rise to brush thy wings.

John Carver

COUNTRY BURIAL-PLACES

In pa.s.sing through New England, a stranger will be struck with the variety, in taste and feeling, respecting burial-places. Here and there may be seen a solitary grave, in a desolate and dreary pasture lot, and anon under the shade of some lone tree, the simple stone reared by affection to the memory of one known and loved by the humble fireside only. There, on that gentle elevation, sloping green and beautiful toward the south, is a family enclosure adorned with trees and filled with the graves of the household. How many breaking hearts have there left the loved till that bright morning! Here in this garden, beside the vine-covered arbor and amidst the shrubbery which her own hand planted, is the monument to the faithful wife and loving mother. How appropriate! How beautiful! And to the old landholders of New England, what motive to hold sacred from the hand of lucre so strong as the ground loved by the living as the burial- place of _their_ dead!

Apropos to burying in gardens, I heard a story of an old man who was bent on interring his wife in his garden, despite of the opposition of all his neighbors to his doing so. Indeed, the old fellow avowed this as his chief reason and to all their entreaties and deprecations and earnest requests he still declared he would do it. Finding everything they could do to be of no avail, the people bethought themselves of a certain physician, who was said to have great influence over the old man, and who owned an orchard adjoining the very garden; so, going to him in a body, they besought him to attempt to change the determination of his obstinate friend. The doctor consented to do so and went. After offering his condolence on the loss of his wife, and proffering any aid he might be able to render at the funeral, the doctor said, ”I understand you intend to bury your deceased wife in your garden.”

”Yes,” answered the old man, ”I do. And the more people object the more I'm determined to do it!”

”Right!” replied the doctor, with an emphatic shake of the head, ”Right! I applaud the deed. I'd bury her there, if I was you. The boys are always stealing the pears from my favorite tree that overhangs your garden, and by and by you'll die, Uncle Diddie, and they'll bury you there, too, and then I'm sure that the boys will never dare steal another pear.”

”No! I'll be hanged if I bury her there,” said the old man in great wrath. ”I'll bury her in the graveyard.”

New England can boast her beautiful places of sculpture, but as a common thing they are too much neglected, and attractive only to the lover of oddities and curious old epitaphs. Occasionally you may see a strangely shaped tomb, or as in a well-known village, a knocker placed on the door of his family vault by some odd specimen of humanity. When asked the reason for doing so singular a thing, he gravely replied that ”when the old gentleman should come to claim his own, the tenants might have the pleasure of saying, 'not at home,' or of fleeing out of the back door.”

In pa.s.sing through these neglected grounds you will often find some touchingly beautiful scriptural allusion--some apt quotation or some emblem so lovely and instructive that the memory of it will go with you for days. Here in a neglected spot and amid a cl.u.s.ter of raised stones is the grave of the stranger clergyman's child, who died on its journey. The inscription is sweet when taken in connection with the portion of sacred history from which the quotation is made: ”Is it well with the child? And she answered, It is well.” Again, the only inscription is an emblem--a b.u.t.terfly rising from the chrysalis.

Glorious thought, embodied in emblem so singular! ”Sown in corruption, raised in incorruption!”

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