The New Hampshire Gazette

To the Departed.

Be soft your sleep ye sacred Dead
Unconscious while ye lie.
Ye cannot lift the cautious tread
Of him, who, by Reflection led,
Your chill bed wandereth nigh.

Ah! many a mournful moon shall pour
Her pale light o'er your rest;
And many a noon-day sun shall soar,
The while his cheerful beams no more
Shall warm the clay-cold breast!

Of bliss, if life have bliss, no share
Ye need, or can obtain;
Nor are ye longer doom'd to bear
Its loads of ever-varying care,
Its misery and pain.

Then rest in peace, ye countless throng.
And blest be your repose!.
Millions shall seek your shades, ere long,
Who raise high the thoughtless song,
That Life, that Folly knows.

I would not trembling, fear to view,
The caves where all must lie;
Hope darts her rays the darkness through,
Faith holds up joys forever new,
To those who dare to die.

Haste, then, the hour that brings me near
A joyless journey's end!.
There's nought, on earth, to fix me here;
In Death there's nought: the good shall fear,
Who claim a Heavenly Friend.