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By rock and cavern, to the wind which fills Your urn-like depths with sound! The tomb is riven, The radiant gate of Heaven Unfolded—and the stern, dark shadow cast By death's o'ersweeping wing, from the earth's bosom past.

And you, ye graves! upon whose turf I stand, Girt with the slumber of the hamlet's dead, Time with a soft and reconciling hand The covering mantle of bright moss hath spread O'er every narrow bed: But not by time, and not by nature sown Was the celestial seed, whence round you peace hath grown.

Christ hath arisen! oh! not one cherish'd head Hath, 'midst the flowery sods, been pillowed here Without a hope, (howe'er the heart hath bled In its vain yearnings o'er the unconscious bier,)