(Written for the Signs of the Times.)

’Tis eventide, and twilight still
Awaits the day’s declining,
On the sylvan crest of yonder hill
The last red beams are shining;
In you little rill the wood-birds lave,
The thrush is gaily singing;
Alas! my friend, around thy grave
The first green blades are springing.
Why come I hear alone to weep?
“God giveth His beloved sheep.”

’Tis His to impart! thy raptured soul
Celestial visions filling,
As a breeze from Paradise it stole,
Soft as the dew distilling,
A sleep which gave thee to repose
Where dreams no troubles borrow,
And weary eyelids do not close
To ope again to-morrow.
Earth gave while here a toilsome way,
Yet spread a peaceful couch of clay.

This silent stone! On it appears –
As it marks where thou art lying –
Thy name, the number of thy years,
The day when thou wert dying;
Speaks not of facial beauty rare,
Th’ impress of virtue wearing,
Of magnanimity writ there,
Nor of thy noble bearing;
And moral puchritude that won
The heart, so sad, since thou art cone.

Memento mori! This alone
Is graven as a warning
To those who speak in careless tone
Of wisdom’s way, and scorning.
Or is it thy last boon to me?
A kind monition given,
Forgetting death would surely be,
Forgetting life, and heaven,
Life’s struggle to retain the breath
Is dread, there is no pain in death.

When hope the light eternal brings,
Has death then any terror?
Death wins the crown, life has the stings,
And man beholds his error.
The world forgive! I can’t indite
Of death a mournful number;
Sic temper felix, I would write
Above its sacred slumber.
The seraphs called – thou coulds’t not wait –
Did’st open leave the heavenly gate?

Life’s sun will hasten to the west,
The skies be fair or dreary,
My change shall come – I too shall rest,
Shall rest when I am weary;
The longing soul strive to be free,
The mortal part will languish;
Then death will kindly come to me,
And gently still my anguish.
Along the self-same winding road
They’ll bring me to my last abode.

Mistaking ones will drop a tear,
Will weep, perhaps, in pity,
As tenderly they place he here
Within this silent city.
Why weep, because the spirit, freed,
Knows not of life’s vexations,
No toil, no care, no craving need,
No cares, and no temptations?
Then what is death, and what the grave,
When Faith and Hope their banners wave?

E’en though the grave with gloom were rife,
Methinks that it would cheer me,
That one, so pleasant in his life,
In death were sleeping near me,
What though, above, the arid soil
Supports no shelt’ring willow,
I here shall sleep from life’s turmoil,
As infant on its pillow.
And earth shall not, with strifes nor woes,
Disturb our angel-watched repose.

Sleep on, my friend; O thou couldst brook
My follies and my weakness,
MY faults and foibles overlook
With tenderness and meekness;
Thou hadst a sympathetic heart,
For me a soothing power,
Thy kindly tone would joy impart
In many a lonely hour.
And this is why I come to weep,
I would not break thy blessed sleep.

And is it meet? for I no more
In all my walk shall greet thee;
Yet on a brighter, happier shore,
My brother, I shall meet thee.
Oh! the fond hope that thou shouldst gain
Earth laurels, earthly glory,
And honor’s wreath – inscribe thy name
In fame’s alluring story.
Thou hast a crown eternal won:
Farewell, my friend, – Sleep on! sleep on!

Author: G. C. F.

Signs of the Times
Volume 28, Number 14; July 15, 1860

Below are the songs that were made from the poem using AI. They are identified
by the genre of the music in paranthesis.

Sorry, but this poem was too long to convert it to music.