Poetry Explorer

Classic and Contemporary Poetry

THE GRAVES OF THE DEAD; A DIRGE by DAVID MACBETH MOIR

First Line: OH, WHEN SHOULD WE VISIT THE GRAVES OF THE DEAD
Last Line: LIKE THE CLOUDS FROM HEAVEN, AWAY WE PASS!
Subject(s): CEMETERIES; DEATH; GRAVES; GRIEF; MEMORY; GRAVEYARDS; DEAD, THE; TOMBS; TOMBSTONES; SORROW; SADNESS;
I.

OH, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?

@3At Morning,@1—when the dewdrops glisten
On the bladed grass and the whispering leaves,
When the heart-struck silence delights to listen
As the solitary blackbird grieves;
Then the glorious orient sun, adorning
The landscape, asks us, where are they,
Who, like larks, with us in life's sweet morning,
Carelessly sung all blithe and gay?
We listen in vain for their gentle voices,
We look in vain for their pleasant smiles;
Yet Nature still in her youth rejoices,
And almost the bosom to joy beguiles.
We find them not within the wildwood,
Up in the mountain, down in. the plain,
As erst of yore, when the skies of childhood
Gleam'd bluely o'er us without a stain.

Alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass!

II.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?

@3At Noontide,@1—when the wide world round us
Busily hums with tumultuous strife,
And Fate with her viewless chain hath bound us
Within the enchanted ring of life;
'Tis then that the startled soul, recoiling,
Turns, sickening turns, from the noisy crowd,
And feels how empty is all our toiling,
When the certain finish is in the shroud.
Lone, lone—by the living all forsaken—
Bud the wild-flowers, and bloom around;
The fierce-eyed sunbeams no more awaken
From that dreamless slumber, sad and sound;
Then in the green fields flocks are bleating,
And neighs the proud steed beneath his palm,
To whose covert boughs the birds retreating,
In coolness chant their choral psalm.

But alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass!

III.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?

@3At Evening,@1—when the flowery meadows
With the haze of twilight begin to fill,
And darkly afar the eastward shadows
Stretch from the peaks of the sunless hill;
When the laggard oxen from fields of clover
Low mournfully as on they roam;
And, with sooty wing, sails slowly over
The night-o'ertaken crow to its home:
Oh, then the forms of the dear departed
Float, spectre-like, in Fancy's eye—
They come—the pale—the broken-hearted—
They come—the mirthful—flitting by;
We scan their features, we list their voices,
The sights, the sounds of remembered years—
This in its buoyant tone rejoices,
That softly thrills on the brink of tears.

Oh, alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass!

IV.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?

@3At Midnight,@1—when the skies are clouded,
The stars seal'd up, and the winds abroad;
When earth in a dreary pall is shrouded,
And sere leaves strew the uncertain road;
When desolate tones are around us moaning,
O'er gravestone grey, and through ruined aisle;
When startled ravens croak, and the groaning
Tempest uptosses forests the while—
Then let us pause by ourselves, and listen
To nature's dirge over human life;
And the heart will throb, the eye will glisten,
When Memory glances to prospects rife
With pleasures, which Time's rude whirlwind banish'd,
With meteor visions that flamed and fled,
With friends that smiled, and smiling vanish'd
To make their lone homes with the dead.

For alas! and alas!
Green grows the grass—
Like the waves we come, like the winds we pass.

V.

Oh, when should we visit the graves of the dead,
To hallow the memory of days that are fled?

@3In Grief,@1—for then reflection gleaneth
A lesson deep from unstable fate;
And Wisdom's small voice the spirit weaneth
From earth's forlorn and low estate:—
@3In Mirth,@1—because 'tis mockery surely
Of what we feel, and perceive around;
And the chasten'd bosom beats more purely,
When press our footsteps on hallowed ground:—
@3At all times,@1—for 'tis wisely loosing
The soul from ties that bind it down;
And a godlike strength is gained from musing
On the fate which soon must prove our own:
For here Sorrow's reign is short, if bitter;
And Pleasure's sunshine, though bright, is brief;
And pass our days o'er in gloom or glitter,
Death comes at length, like a silent thief!

Then alas, and alas!
Like the dews from grass—
Like the clouds from heaven, away we pass!



Home: PoetryExplorer.net