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THE GRAVE-YARD. |
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THE GRAVE-YARD.
In its sacred enclosure How quiet they sleep !
How blest is their slumber, Unbroken and deep!
The storms, in their fierceness, May rave round the spot;
But their loud, dismal wailings Awaken them not!
The world passes on In its ardour and strife,
But unheeded by them Is the clangour of life.
The wildness of passion— That, wave after wave,
Dash'd over their spirits— Is hush'd in the grave.
The grave-yard—the grave-yard!
Imposingly dread Is the unbroken silence
Which reigns o'er the dead!
Fond Memory may linger
O'er days which have gone; Affection may call—but • They heed not her tone! |
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