The evening shadows fall upon the grave
On which I sit; it is no common heap,
Below its turf are laid the bones of one,
Who, sick of life and misery, did quench
The vital spark which in his bosom burnd.
The shadows deepen, and the ruddy tinge
Which lately flooded all the western sky
Has now diminishd to a single streak,
And here I sit, alone, and listen to
The noise of forests, and the hum of groves.
This is the time to think of natures God,
When birds and fountains, streams and woods, unite
Their various-sounding voices in his praise:
Shall man alone refuse to sing ityes,
For man, alone, has nought to thank him for.
Theres not a joy he gives to us on earth
That is not dashd with bitterness and gall,
Only when youth is past, and age comes on,
Do we find quietquiet is not bliss,
Then tell me, God, what Ive to thank thee for.
But to recur to him who rests beneath
He had a heart enthusiastic, warm,
And formd for loveno prejudice dwelt there;
He roamd about the world to find a heart
Which felt with his, he sought, and found it not.
Or if he found it, providence steppd in,
And tore the cherishd object from his sight,
Or filld its mind with visions weak and vain
Could he survive all this? ah, no! he died,
Died by the hand which injurd none but him.
And did he die unpitied and unwept,
Most probably, for there are fools who think
T is crime in man to take what is his own
And t was on account they laid him here,
Within this sweet, unconsecrated, spot.
There comes a troop of maidens and of youths
Home from their labourhark! they cease their song,
And, pointing to the grave, with trembling hands,
They make a circuit, thinking that in me
The ghost of the self-murderer they view
Which, fame says, wanders here.