With soft, mild rays, the winter sun
Thy tortuous pathways doth illume,
The weeping-willow droops its head,
To crown the "City of the Dead."
On every side death's tracks I see,
His footsteps grim encompass me,
The high-born here, the lowly there,
The proud man there, the humble here.
The rich has left his golden hoard,
No more he sits at festive board,
He could not bribe relentless death,
With all his garnered stores of wealth.
Here lies a maiden spotless fair,
Whose claim on life for many a year
Seemed sure. But the grim Reaper smiled,
And bending, claimed her for his child.
So lovingly they made her bed.
And tenderly these garlands spread,
Bright emblems of a stricken flower,
Now blooming in a sunnier bower.
And here an infant's grave I see,
Ere sin could stain its purity,
It plumed its wings and upward soared,
To live forever with its God.
Though fair the earth, it would not stay,
Much fairer still the land away,
Restrain me not, for I would go
Where crystal fountains endless flow.