TO HIM who in the love of Nature holds

    Communion with her visible forms she speaks

    A various language； for his gayer hours

    She has a voice of gladness and a smile

    And eloquence of beauty and she glides

    Into his darker musings with a mild

    And healing sympathy that steals away

    Their sharpness ere he is aware. When thoughts

    Of the last bitter hour come like a blight

    Over thy spirit and sad images

    Of the stern agony and shroud and pall

    And breathless darkness and the narrow house

    Make thee to shudder and grow sick at heart；—

    Go forth under the open sky and list

    To Nature's teachings while from all around—

    Earth and her waters and the depths of air—

    Comes a still voice—Yet a few days and thee

    The all-beholding sun shall see no more

    In all his course； nor yet in the cold ground

    Where thy pale form was laid with many tears

    Nor in the embrace of ocean shall exist

    Thy image. Earth that nourished thee shall claim

    Thy growth to be resolved to earth again

    And lost each human trace surrendering up

    Thine individual being shalt thou go

    To mix forever with the elements；

    To be a brother to the insensible rock

    And to the sluggish clod which the rude swain

    Turns with his share and treads upon. The oak

    Shall send his roots abroad and pierce thy mould.

    Yet not to thine eternal resting-place

    Shalt thou retire alone nor couldst thou wish

    Couch more magnificent. Thou shalt lie down

    With patriarchs of the infant world —with kings

    The powerful of the earth —the wise the good

    Fair forms and hoary seers of ages past

    All in one mighty sepulchre. The hills

    Rock-ribbed and ancient as the sun； the vales

    Stretching in pensive quietness between；

    The venerable woods—rivers that move

    In majesty and the complaining brooks

    That make the meadows green； and poured round all

    Old Ocean's gray and melancholy waste —

    Are but the solemn decorations all

    Of the great tomb of man！ The golden sun

    The planets all the infinite host of heaven

    Are shining on the sad abodes of death

    Through the still lapse of ages. All that tread

    The globe are but a handful to the tribes

    That slumber in its bosom.—Take the wings

    Of morning pierce the Barcan wilderness

    Or lose thyself in the continuous woods

    Where rolls the Oregon and hears no sound

    Save his own dashings —yet the dead are there：

    And millions in those solitudes since first

    The flight of years began have laid them down

    In their last sleep—the dead reign there alone.

    So shalt thou rest； and what if thou withdraw

    In silence from the living and no friend

    Take note of thy departure？ All that breathe

    Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh

    When thou art gone the solemn brood of care

    Plod on and each one as before will chase

    His favorite phantom； yet all these shall leave

    Their mirth and their employments and shall come

    And make their bed with thee. As the long train

    Of ages glide away the sons of men

    The youth in life's green spring and he who goes

    In the full strength of years matron and maid

    The speechless babe and the gray-headed man—

    Shall one by one be gathered to thy side

    By those who in their turn shall follow them.

    So live that when thy summons comes to join

    The innumerable caravan which moves

    To that mysterious realm where each shall take

    His chamber in the silent halls of death

    Thou go not like the quarry-slave at night

    Scourged to his dungeon but sustained and soothed

    By an unfaltering trust approach thy grave

    Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch

    About him and lies down to pleasant dreams.