Press close your lips,
And bow your heads to earth, for Death is here!
Mark ye not how across that eye so clear,
Steals his eclipse?

A moment more,
And the quick throbbings of her heart shall cease,
Her pain-wrung spirit will obtain release,
And all be o'er!

Hush! Seal ye up
Your gushing tears, for Mercy's hand hath shaken
Her earth-bonds off, and from her lip hath taken
Grief's bitter cup.

Ye know the dead
Are they who rest secure from care and strife,-
That they who walk the thorny way of life,
Have tears to shed.

Ye know her pray'r,
Was for the quiet of the tomb's deep rest,-
Love's sepulchre lay cold within her breast,
Could peace dwell there?

A tale soon told,
Is of her life the story; she had loved,
And he who won her heart to love, had proved
Heartless and cold.

Lay her to rest,
Where shines and falls the summer's sun and dew;
For these should shine and fall where lies so true
And fond a breast!

A full release
From every pang is given to the dead,-
So on the stone ye place above her head,
Write only “Peace.”*

When Spring comes back,
With music on her lips,-joy in her eye,-
Her sunny banner streaming through the sky,-
Flow'rs in her track-

Then come ye here,
And musing from the busy world apart,
Drop on the turf that wraps her mouldering heart,
Sweet Pity's tear.

* The most touchingly beautiful epitaph I have ever read, was
written in that one word, “Peace.” It seemed like the last sigh
of a departing spirit, over the clay which it was about to
abandon for ever.