Poetry Explorer- Classic Contemporary Poetry, LINES WRITTEN IN A LONELY BURIAL GROUNDS ON NORTHEN COAST OF HIGHLANDS, by JOHN WILSON (1785-1854)


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Classic and Contemporary Poetry

LINES WRITTEN IN A LONELY BURIAL GROUNDS ON NORTHEN COAST OF HIGHLANDS, by                     Poet's Biography
First Line: How mournfully this burial-ground
Last Line: Down -- down a thousand fathoms deep
Alternate Author Name(s): North, Christopher
Subject(s): Cemeteries; Sea; Graveyards; Ocean


How mournfully this burial ground
Sleeps mid old Ocean's solemn sound,
Who rolls his bright and sunny waves
All round these deaf and silent graves!
The cold wan light that glimmers here,
The sickly wild-flowers may not cheer;
If here, with solitary hum,
The wandering mountain-bee doth come,
Mid the pale blossoms short his stay,
To brighter leaves he booms away.
The sea-bird, with a wailing sound,
Alighteth softly on a mound,
And, like an image, sitting there
For hours amid the doleful air,
Seemeth to tell of some dim union,
Some wild and mystical communion,
Connecting with his parent sea
This lonesome, stoneless ceme'try.
This may not be the burial-place
Of some extinguish'd kingly race,
Whose name on earth no longer known
Hath moulder'd with the mouldering stone.
That nearest grave, yet brown with mould,
Seems but one summer-twilight old;
Both late and frequent hath the bier
Been on its mournful visit here,
And you green spot of sunny rest
Is waiting for its destined guest.
I see no little kirk -- no bell
On Sabbath tinkleth through this dell,
How beautiful those graves and fair,
That, lying round the house of prayer,
Sleep in the shadow of its grace!
But death has chosen this rueful place
For his own undivided reign!
And nothing tells that e'er again
The sleepers will forsake their bed --
Now, and for everlasting dead,
For hope with memory seems fled!
Wild-screaming bird! unto the sea
Winging thy flight reluctantly,
Slow-floating o'er these grassy tombs,
So ghost-like, with thy snow-white plumes,
At once from thy wild shriek I know
What means this place so steep'd in wo!
Here, they who perish'd on the deep
Enjoy at last unrocking sleep,
For ocean, from this wrathful breast,
Flung them into this haven of rest,
Where shroudless, coffinless, they lie, --
'T is the shipwreck'd seaman's cemet'ry.
Here seamen old, with grizzled locks,
Shipwreck'd before on desert rocks,
And by some wandering vessel taken
From sorrows that seem God-forsaken,
Home bound, here have met the blast
That wreck'd them on death's shore at last!
Old friendless men, who had no tears
To shed, nor any place for fears
In hearts by misery fortified, --
And, without terror, sternly died.
Here, many a creature, moving bright
And glorious in full manhood's might,
Who dared with an untroubled eye
The tempest brooding in the sky,
And loved to hear that music rave,
And danced above the mountain-wave,
Hath quaked on this terrific strand, --
All flung like sea-weeds to the land;
A whole crew lying side by side,
Death-dash'd at once in all their pride.
And here, the bright-hair'd, fair-faced boy,
Who took with him all earthly joy
From one who weeps both night and day
For her sweet son borne far away,
Escaped at last the cruel deep,
In all his beauty lies asleep;
While she would yield all hopes of grace
For one kiss of his pale, cold face!
Oh, I could wail in lonely fear,
For many a woful ghost sits here,
All weeping with their fixed eyes!
And what a dismal sound of sighs
Is mingling with the gentle roar
Of small waves breaking on the shore;
While ocean seems to sport and play
In mockery of its wretched prey!
And lo! a white-wing'd vessel sails
In sunshine, gathering all the gales
Fast-freshening from you isle of pines,
That o'er the clear sea waves and shines.
I turn me to the ghostly crowd,
All smear'd with dust, without a shroud,
And silent every blue-swollen lip!
Then gazing on the sunny ship,
And listening to the gladsome cheers
Of all her thoughtless mariners,
I seem to hear in every breath
The hollow under-tones of death,
Who, all unheard by those who sing,
Keeps tune with low wild murmuring,
And points with his lean, bony hand
To the pale ghosts sitting on this strand,
Then dives beneath the rushing prow,
Till on some moonless night of wo
He drives her shivering from the steep
Down -- down a thousand fathoms deep





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