Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1831.pdf/14



Till, in the strength of penitence To the worst sinner given, The grave would seem a resting-place Between this world and heaven.

'Tis but a pious memory That lingers in this dell, That human tears, and human prayers, Have sanctified the cell.

Save for that memory, all we see Were only some fair scene, Not linked unto our present time By aught that e'er had been.

But now a moral influence Is on that small grey stone; For who e'er watched another's grave And thought not of his own,

And felt that all his trust in life Was leaning on a reed? And who can hear of prayer and faith And not confess their need?

If he who sleeps beneath thought years Of prayer might scarce suffice To reconcile his God, and win A birthright in the skies,

What may we hope who hurry on   Through life's tumultuous day, And scarcely give one little hour To heaven upon our way?

Thou blessed grave! ah, not in vain Has been thy presence here, If it hath wrought in any heart One higher hope or fear. L. E. L.