Page:The New Monthly Magazine - Volume 094.djvu/471

 Rh Peace be with all who rest in thy embrace!—

From him, the offspring of a noble race,

Whose name and deeds far generations prize—

To him, whose humble dust forgotten lies!

Calmed are the living, too, by thy repose;

And through the solemn gloom thy shadow throws.

The trembler seeks, while Fate’s dark thunders roar,

A distant glimpse of Hope's enchanting shore.

Each wand'rer from the world that hither strays,

Upon thy mounds and hillocks green to gaze,

May feel his passions stilled, and gain that peace

Which has alone the power to bid earth's sorrows cease.

He whom disease hath marked with pallid cheek,

May here behold the rest he soon must seek;

From grave to grave, whilst leaning on his crutch,

He moves—and learns the lesson needed much.

How many come to seek a loved, lost friend!

With bitter grief over his tomb they bend,

Till something whispers that their grief is vain,

And bids them dream of meeting once again.

Yes; hail to thee, garden of death! For here,

'Midst quiet graves, their heads sweet flow’rets rear;

The trees we plant ourselves shall one day bloom

In careless beauty o’er our lowly tomb.

That which to us but deep repose appears,

Where human dust is gathered years on years—

Ah! is, in truth, eternity’s dark gate!

Over these tombs may angel-forms await!

Then tell thy soul—these seeming sleepers rise

From death to endless life, above yon distant skies!

These are rather melancholy lines; therefore we shall not follow Guldberg further in his meditations among the tombs, but take one or two trifles from a Norwegian author, Claus Fastning, of Bergen, who lived between the years 1746 and 1791, and was somewhat celebrated for his epigrams.