Where slept his ancestors; and had it not,
He deemed--he felt--that if his feet but trode
Upon his parents' dust, the voice of God,
As it of old flashed through a prophet's breast,
Would in his bosom whisper, "Here they rest!"
'Twas an Enthusiast's thought;--but, oh! to tread,
With darkness round us, 'midst the voiceless dead,
With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face--
At such a moment, and in such a place,
Seeking the dead we love--who would not feel.
Yea, and believe as he did then, and kneel
On friend or father's grave, and kiss the sod
As in the presence of our father's God!


VI.

He reached the spot; he startled--trembled--wept;
And through his bosom wildest feelings swept.
He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the place
Where slept the generations of his race,
A marble pillar rose. "Oh Heaven!" he cried,
"Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied
The parents of my heart a grave with those
Of their own kindred?--have their ruthless foes
Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own?
If but a weed upon that grave had grown,
I would have honoured it!--have called it brother!
Even for my father's sake, and thine, my mother!
But that cold marble freezes up my heart,