RURAL CEMETERIES. 'WIND, gentle evergreen, to form a shade THERE is a pleasure in looking upon the grave as a place of rest. But in the heart of cities, we fancy something in their sepulchres, repugnant to the idea of a sweet repose. There the dead may lie down amid a profusion of sculpture, amid monuments seen like the tomb of Bianor in the distance, erected by vanity, and never moistened by a tear. But there is a voice without, which baffles all their quietude, and drowns the silent eloquence of the grave. While the multitude are hurrying through crowded thoroughfares, and the hum of men and murmurs of a great mart are fretting like waves against the sepulchre, it seems not like that wished-for mansion, where the weary are at rest.' Methinks I could emulate the example of the Turk, if not in his ideas of a blind fatality, at least in a devotion which teaches him not to violate the grave. For, indulging the stately reserve of his nature, he holds converse with the shades of his ancestors, reposing beneath the mourning cypress, in the midst of some vast necropolis. The care of the dead is a beautiful trait in any nation, and has its origin in the unadulterated wells of the heart. It is a redeeming feature in the otherwise stern and repulsive character of the American savage. He loves his country, not only for its solitudes, and majestic forests, which accord so well with his 'soul's sadness,' and whence, as from a temple, his prayers may go up to the Great Spirit, but he loves it more ardently, for in it the bones of his dead repose. He regards their sepulchres with a veneration of which more civilized nations know nothing, and they are his last entrenchment in the day of battle. And when the arts of the white man have at last prevailed, and he goes broken-hearted beyond the Great River,' thither his last lingering looks are cast. Generations may pass away, like the leaves of the forest; but when some of his posterity, retracing the steps of his exile, come to our seat of government to strike new treaties, again to be broken, they will turn, perhaps, many miles from the highway, and seeking out some tumulus in the wood, where the ashes of their tribe were deposited, pass many hours in silent lamentation. And is not the civilized man excelled in this respect by the savage? After unmitigated wrong and outrage, committed and to be committed, until their last remnant has vanished, would to God that he would learn this lesson from the vanquished! Who has not seen, in our larger towns, sacrilege frequently committed, for the sake of lucre ?—the abodes of the dead unblushingly rent open, bones cast out in a heterogeneous mass, and the whole place at last reduced to one common level? It might have been hoped, that the lust of gain would stop short of this; and to the honor of human nature, many have united in the deprecatory voice of the poet : 'Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, He Shame, shame on the Vandal, that can trample, brute-like, on the graves of his kindred, or cast indignity on the soil that presses the bosom of his friends! The man of refined feelings will recollect, that that which now lies cold beneath him, was once the birth-place of all that is noble. He will feel it a sacrilege to trample on the grave; much more, to invade with indecent hand its precincts. will rather regard it a 'holy of holies,' a place to be protected from every profane intrusion; a shrine whither to wend in frequent pilgrimage, and to bring the tribute of his tears. By every motive of self-respect or of love for the departed, let us protect their sepulchres; adorning them with the mourning cypress, and with the sweetest flowers of the spring! It is this beautiful custom, which takes away from those chilling sensations that are apt to crowd upon the mind, and to oppress it, on the approach to the sepulchre. We forget that the worm is revelling on the object of our affection, and, enchanted by the sweet poetry of the prospect, we look upon the grave as a beautiful resting-place. What a peculiar fitness, also, in the rite, and how emblematic of the virtuous dead! For as flowers, though long plucked from the stem, still continue to diffuse their sweetness around them, so will the fragrance of virtuous actions be strong and lasting, even when the heart which prompted, and the hand which performed them, have been for ever chilled in death.* When, instead of a dank, unhandsome-charnel house, associated only with the humbling ideas of corruption, where the aged, whom we have honored, and the young whose beauty, so sylph-like, so spirituelle, we have idolized, are given up to festering and the worm; when, instead of all that is repulsive to human feeling, we behold the sepulchre turned into a garden of roses, and into a breathing wilderness of sweets, we could almost forego the remnants of a life, too agitated by painful emotions, and lay down our heads as in some chamber of sweet forgetfulness, some flowery entrance to the blest abodes, where there are no more tears or sorrow, 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' Happy is it, that the grave can be thus stripped of its prerogative of terror, and robbed of its 'victory,' even as Jesus Christ has rifled death of its 'sting.' That thus we may look calmly upon it, as the IT was not until writing the above, that we discovered a similar sentiment in the poet SHIRLEY, and it is one which, with its context, made the veteran CROMWELL turn as pale as ashes: The garlands wither on your brow; Then beast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds!" All heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the ashes of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.' It ultimate goal whither all steps are wending, as the dark opening of some bright and glorious perspective, and not recoil into the giddy world, to escape its lessons of morality. Were the grave rendered more attractive, it might be better than the words of the preacher. The old man, as he passed by, would remember, without shuddering, that he was dust, nor would the youth hurry on, whistling to keep his courage up.' It should entice more readily than the lips of some 'old man eloquent,' and instil its stern lessons into willing ears. should have a voice and an eloquence of its own. More sublimely than human thought ever conceived of, and in a language 'sweeter than all tune,' it should discourse of death, judgment, and eternity. Oh! bring flowers, bring flowers! Disdain not to encourage what is so refined in its tendency, though Reason, in her despicable pride, may sneer at you, and account it a weakness to honor the casket, when deserted by the gem! Let us visit often the burial-places of the dead, recall our minds from the grossness of earthly cares, commune with them, and then, scattering our sweet emblems, go back with a cheerful heart into the world, and endeavor to emulate their virtues. We shall be better affected by this, than by rearing any cold mausoleum. That may be intrusted to the artist, and may excite the gaze, if not the sneer, of It is better to present our own offerings. the passer. What are the proudest piles of sculptured marble? Will not the beating storm, and the effacing moss, and the corrosive hand of time, soon blot out these vain memorials, and destroy the short-lived characters which are inscribed upon them? But the willow and the rose will be ever returning, and ever blooming on the approach of spring; thus quickening our affections, and almost enticing us to linger at the grave. And who would not prefer these natural monuments, to the cold marble which the hand of man has fashioned? the romantic beauties of 'Père la Chaise,' to the long-drawn aisles of Westminster Abbey? Yes, surely if there is a place where simplicity possesses a charm, and where every approach to arrogance should be avoided, it is that last narrow house: 'where side by side, The poor man and the son of pride, Lie calm and still!' To throw around the grave the gorgeous paraphernalia of living haughtiness, appears a kind of horrid mockery. It is the unseemly paint daubed upon the ghastly features of death. It is creating a distinction, where every distinction is alike levelled with the dust. And there are better memorials than the gilded marble, or the sculptured stone; for the tear, as it trembles in the eye of affection, or sparkles on the tomb of the dead, is worth all the 'pomp of heraldry, and boast of power;' and the deep-graven characters which are inscribed upon the living_tablets of the heart, are better than the most vaunting epitaph upon Parian marble. F. W. S. A THOUGHT. 'LIVE well, and die never- of human nature, many have united in the deprecatory voice of the poet: 'Good friend, for Jesus' sake forbear, Shame, shame on the Vandal, that can trample, brute-like, on the graves of his kindred, or cast indignity on the soil that presses the bosom of his friends! The man of refined feelings will recollect, that that which now lies cold beneath him, was once the birth-place of all that is noble. He will feel it a sacrilege to trample on the grave; much more, to invade with indecent hand its precincts. He will rather regard it a 'holy of holies,' a place to be protected from every profane intrusion; a shrine whither to wend in frequent pilgrimage, and to bring the tribute of his tears. By every motive of self-respect or of love for the departed, let us protect their sepul chres; adorning them with the mourning cypress, and with the sweetest flowers of the spring! It is this beautiful custom, which takes away from those chilling sensations that are apt to crowd upon the mind, and to oppress it, on the approach to the sepulchre. We forget that the worm is revelling on the object of our affection, and, enchanted by the sweet poetry of the prospect, we look upon the grave as a beautiful resting-place. What a peculiar fitness, also, in the rite, and how emblematic of the virtuous dead! For as flowers, though long plucked from the stem, still continue to diffuse their sweetness around them, so will the fragrance of virtuous actions be strong and lasting, even when the heart which prompted, and the hand which performed them, have been for ever chilled in death.* When, instead of a dank, unhandsome-charnel house, associated only with the humbling ideas of corruption, where the aged, whom we have honored, and the young whose beauty, so sylph-like, so spirituelle, we have idolized, are given up to festering and the worm; when, instead of all that is repulsive to human feeling, we behold the sepulchre turned into a garden of roses, and into a breathing wilderness of sweets, we could almost forego the remnants of a life, too agitated by painful emotions, and lay down our heads as in some chamber of sweet forgetfulness, some flowery entrance to the blest abodes, where there are no more tears or sorrow, 'where the wicked cease from troubling, and the weary are at rest.' Happy is it, that the grave can be thus stripped of its prerogative of terror, and robbed of its 'victory,' even as Jesus Christ has rifled death of its 'sting.' That thus we may look calmly upon it, as the * It was not until writing the above, that we discovered a similar sentiment in the poet SHIRLEY, and it is one which, with its context, made the veteran CROMWELL turn as pale as ashes: The garlands wither on your brow; Then beast no more your mighty deeds; Upon death's purple altar now See where the victor victim bleeds!" All heads must come To the cold tomb: Only the ashes of the just Smell sweet and blossom in the dust.' It ultimate goal whither all steps are wending, as the dark opening of some bright and glorious perspective, and not recoil into the giddy world, to escape its lessons of morality. Were the grave rendered more attractive, it might be better than the words of the preacher. The old man, as he passed by, would remember, without shuddering, that he was dust, nor would the youth hurry on, 'whistling to keep his courage up.' It should entice more readily than the lips of some 'old man eloquent,' and instil its stern lessons into willing ears. should have a voice and an eloquence of its own. More sublimely than human thought ever conceived of, and in a language 'sweeter than all tune,' it should discourse of death, judgment, and eternity. Oh! bring flowers, bring flowers! Disdain not to encourage what is so refined in its tendency, though Reason, in her despicable pride, may sneer at you, and account it a weakness to honor the casket, when deserted by the gem! Let us visit often the burial-places of the dead, recall our minds from the grossness of earthly cares, commune with them, and then, scattering our sweet emblems, go back with a cheerful heart into the world, and endeavor to emulate their virtues. We shall be better affected by this, than by rearing any cold mausoleum. That may be intrusted to the artist, and may excite the gaze, if not the sneer, of the passer. It is better to present our own offerings. What are the proudest piles of sculptured marble? Will not the beating storm, and the effacing moss, and the corrosive hand of time, soon blot out these vain memorials, and destroy the short-lived cbaracters which are inscribed upon them? But the willow and the rose will be ever returning, and ever blooming on the approach of spring; thus quickening our affections, and almost enticing us to linger at the grave. And who would not prefer these natural monuments, to the cold marble which the hand of man has fashioned? the romantic beauties of 'Père la Chaise,' to the long-drawn aisles of Westminster Abbey? Yes, surely if there is a place where simplicity possesses a charm, and where every approach to arrogance should be avoided, it is that last narrow house : 'where side by side, The poor man and the son of pride, Lie calm and still!' To throw around the grave the gorgeous paraphernalia of living haughtiness, appears a kind of horrid mockery. It is the unseemly paint daubed upon the ghastly features of death. It is creating a distinction, where every distinction is alike levelled with the dust. And there are better memorials than the gilded marble, or the sculptured stone; for the tear, as it trembles in the eye of affection, or sparkles on the tomb of the dead, is worth all the 'pomp of heraldry, and boast of power;' and the deep-graven characters which are inscribed upon the living tablets of the heart, are better than the most vaunting epitaph upon Parian marble. F. W. S. A THOUGHT. 'LIVE well, and die never- |