WELL sang the Bard who called the grave, in strains Thoughtful and sad, the "narrow house." No style Of fond sepulchral flattery can beguile Grief of her sting; nor cheat, where he detains The sleeping dust, stern Death. How reconcile With truth, or with each other, decked remains Of a once warm Abode, and that 'new' Pile, For the departed, built with curious pains And mausolean pomp? Yet here they stand Together, -- 'mid trim walks and artful bowers, To be looked down upon by ancient hills, That, for the living and the dead, demand And prompt a harmony of genuine powers; Concord that elevates the mind, and stills. | Discover our Poem Explanations and Poet Analyses!Other Poems of Interest...A UTILITARIAN VIEW OF THE MONITOR'S FIGHT by HERMAN MELVILLE ANTIQUE JEWELER by FREDERICK HENRY HERBERT ADLER INSTEAD OF TEARS by JOSEPH AUSLANDER THE LAST MAN: LIFE A GLASS WINDOW by THOMAS LOVELL BEDDOES |