The Family Burying-Ground.

A wall of crumbling stones doth keep     Watch o'er long barrows where they sleep,      Old chronicled grave-stones of its dead,     On which oblivious mosses creep      And lichens gray as lead.     Warm days the lost cows as they pass     Rest here and browse the juicy grass      That springs about its sun-scorched stones;     Afar one hears their bells' deep brass      Waft melancholy tones.     Here the wild morning-glory goes     A-rambling as the myrtle grows,      Wild morning-glories pale as pain,     With holy urns, that hint at woes,      The night hath filled with rain.     Here are blackberries largest seen,     Rich, winey dark, whereon the lean      Black hornet sucks, noons sick with heat,     That bend not to the shadowed green      The heavy bearded wheat.     At dark, for its forgotten dead,     A requiem, of no known wind said,      Through ghostly cedars moans and throbs,     While to thin starlight overhead      The shivering screech-owl sobs.