WILLIAM CULLEN BRYANT
In silence from the living, and no friend
Take note of thy departure? All that breathe
Will share thy destiny. The gay will laugh
When thou art gone, the solemn brood of care
Plod on, and each one as before will chase
His favourite phantom; yet all these shall leave
Their mirth and their employments, and shall come
And make their bed with thee. As the long train
Of ages glide away, the sons of men,
The youth in life's green spring, and he who goes
In the full strength of years, matron and maid,
The speechless babe, and the grey-headed man
Shall one by one be gathered to thy side
By those who in their turn shall follow them.
So live, that when thy summons comes to join The innumerable caravan which moves To that mysterious realm where each shall take Hib chamber in the silent halls of death, Thou go not, like the quarry-slave at night, Scourged to his dungeon, but, sustam'd and soothed By an unfaltering trust, approach thy grave, Like one who wraps the drapery of his couch About him, and lies down to pleasant dreams.
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