The Grave

There is a low and lonely place of rest, Upon whose couch the worn and wearied frame Reposes in forgetfulness,--and there, The streaming eye of misery is clos'd In sweet and dreamless slumber;--on that bed The painful beatings of the breaking heart Are hush'd to stillness; and the harrowing pangs Of hopeless agony, are felt no more! Around that silent dwelling-place, the veil Of darkness curtains closely:--not a sigh, Nor lightest whisp'ring of the summer-wind Steals on the breathless and eternal calm, Which o'er that region spreads its canopy !