Spirits Of The Dead

Thy soul shall find itself alone 'Mid dark thoughts of the gray tombstone Not one, of all the crowd, to pry Into thine hour of secrecy. Be silent in that solitude Which is not loneliness for then The spirits of the dead who stood In life before thee are again In death around thee and their will Shall overshadow thee: be still. The night tho' clear shall frown And the stars shall not look down From their high thrones in the Heaven, With light like Hope to mortals given But their red orbs, without beam, To thy weariness shall seem As a burning and a fever Which would cling to thee forever. Now are thoughts thou shalt not banish Now are visions ne'er to vanish From thy spirit shall they pass No more like dew-drops from the grass. The breeze the breath of God is still And the mist upon the hill Shadowy shadowy yet unbroken, Is a symbol and a token How it hangs upon the trees, A mystery of mysteries!