1818
                                THE BURIAL-PLACE
                                   A FRAGMENT

                            by William Cullen Bryant








şiElectronically Enhanced Text (c) Copyright 1996, World Library(R)
DAK Upgraded Edition, Copyright 2000, DAK Industries 2000, Inc(R)şI

{THE_BURIAL_PLACE
                           THE BURIAL-PLACE
                                A FRAGMENT
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          Erewhile, on England's pleasant shores, our sires
        Left not their churchyards unadorned with shades
        Or blossoms, but indulgent to the strong
        And natural dread of man's last home, the grave,
        Its frost and silence- they disposed around,
        To soothe the melancholy spirit that dwelt
        Too sadly on life's close, the forms and hues
        Of vegetable beauty. There the yew,
        Green ever amid the snows of winter, told
        Of immortality, and gracefully
        The willow, a perpetual mourner, drooped;
        And there the gadding woodbine crept about,
        And there the ancient ivy. From the spot
        Where the sweet maiden, in her blossoming years
        Cut off, was laid with streaming eyes, and hands
        That trembled as they placed her there, the rose
        Sprung modest, on bowed stalk, and better spoke
        Her graces, than the proudest monument.
        There children set about their playmate's grave
        The pansy. On the infant's little bed,
        Wet at its planting with maternal tears,
                                                 {THE_BURIAL_PLACE ^line 20}
        Emblem of early sweetness, early death,
        Nestled the lowly primrose. Childless dames,
        And maids that would not raise the reddened eye-
        Orphans, from whose young lids the light of joy
        Fled early- silent lovers, who had given
        All that they lived for to the arms of earth,
        Came often, o'er the recent graves to strew
        Their offerings, rue, and rosemary, and flowers.
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          The pilgrim bands who passed the sea to keep
        Their Sabbaths in the eye of God alone,
        In his wide temple of the wilderness,
        Brought not these simple customs of the heart
        With them. It might be, while they laid their dead
        By the vast solemn skirts of the old groves,
        And the fresh virgin soil poured forth strange flowers
        About their graves; and the familiar shades
        Of their own native isle, and wonted blooms,
        And herbs were wanting, which the pious hand
        Might plant or scatter there, these gentle rites
                                                 {THE_BURIAL_PLACE ^line 40}
        Passed out of use. Now they are scarcely known,
        And rarely in our borders may you meet
        The tall larch, sighing in the burial-place,
        Or willow, training low its boughs to hide
        The gleaming marble. Naked rows of graves
        And melancholy ranks of monuments
        Are seen instead, where the coarse grass, between,
        Shoots up its dull green spikes, and in the wind
        Hisses, and the neglected bramble nigh,
        Offers its berries to the schoolboy's hand,
        In vain- they grow too near the dead. Yet here,
        Nature, rebuking the neglect of man,
        Plants Often, by the ancient mossy stone,
        The brier-rose, and upon the broken turf
        That clothes the fresher grave, the strawberry plant
        Sprinkles its swell with blossoms, and lays forth
        Her ruddy, pouting fruit....
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                               THE END