Come to this spot among the rocks and pines,— This hidden acre thou hadst ne'er beheld Unless persuaded by a poet's lines, Or by the circumstance of death compelled. The summer suns pour down their fervid heat On stunted herbage and a sterile soil: The storms of winter hurl their stinging sleet, And the hurt trees in agony recoil. These modest monuments no great names bear; Thou tread'st not, traveler, on a hero here; Yet these were strong to do and brave to dare, And filled their places on the busy sphere. They and the sea were surely kith and kin, And o'er these graves, although they never stop, Marauding sea-fogs that come driving in, A tribute from their salty plunder drop. Near this lone nook their labor was not done: Through calms and storms, from port to port they ran: Or from the tropic to the frozen zone They sought and slaughtered the leviathan. Their virtues or their vices who shall tell, Or what their harbor since life's sails were furled! Remote from strife and tumult they sleep well "Here at the quiet limit of the world." Such simple histories deep lessons teach,— Who seeketh wisdom let him pause and learn,— That in His plan God hath remembered each, And each He satisfieth in his turn: That death, relentless, still is not unkind, The vexed and weary to compel to rest; Nor mother earth in her affection blind To call her crying children to her breast. |