No more the golden grain

Above these fields shall broadly wave,
But greenly o'er the grassy grave,
The mantling turf shall wrap the deep
Undreaming sleep

Of thousands, who from Life's unrest,
Shall seek Earth's sheltering breast---
A refuge blest!

Yet not, oh, Death! to thee,

As the Grim Monster, and Chimera dread,
Of horrid shape, give we our dead—
Give we this consecrated ground,

With Nature's garlands crowned—
Not as the Fleshless Skeleton

All shuddering look upon,

With fearful scythe, and glass of doom— The Spectral Terror of the Tomb!

Rather, oh, Death! art thou

The Weeping Angel, with sad brow,
And drooping torch-whose tearful eye
Is filled with kindly sympathy
For human woe-whose dark, soft wing
O'er Life's last hour is hovering,
In pity sent to break the chain
That binds the sufferer unto pain!

Death! Sleep! of Mercy born

Ye minister alike to all

In Peasant's cot and Monarch's hall,
Ye softly seal the weeping eye,
Ye hush pale Sorrow's anguished sigh,
Ye soothe the wildly-throbbing brain,
Ye dull the quick, sharp sting of pain,
Ye "Knit the ravelled sleeve of care,"
Ye solace even dark Despair!

Twin brothers ye! though mortal eye
But sees Life's mightiest enemy

In Death, the Weeper!-yet is given
Through him alone, the hope of Heaven!

Thou dark-winged Angel! unto thee We yield this Woodland shrine—

Sacred to thee and thine!

Here shalt thou, from the World apart,
Gently lay the care-crushed heart—
Aching breast that heaves no more,
Life's wild, "fitful fever" o'er,-
Guileless Infant, blest of God,
Pillowed 'neath the flowery sod-
Beauty's radiant, sylph-like form,
Late with thrilling passions warm—
Manhood's port of dauntless pride,
And withered age-here, side by side,
To rest within their narrow bed
Till trembling Earth gives up its dead!

Hither, "Heavy-laden!" come—

To the weary wanderer's home!

As flies the arrow-stricken deer

To thickest shades, so mayst thou here
Find welcome rest: the ceaseless roar
Of warring crowds, shall vex no more
Thy tortured ear :—Ye crave,
E'en from the pitying Grave,

That sweet Forgetfulness that brings
Peace on its healing wings!

Mourner! bowed with woe,

That passeth tears and outward show,
Frequent to this calm retreat,

Wilt thou turn thy pilgrim feet,

With nature's self that grief to share,
The lonely heart doth deepest bear :
Love, as strong as Death, shall keep
Vigils where the lovely sleep-

Hope doth watch above the tomb,
Broken Hearted! hither come!

Worldling! 'mid thy giddy round,

From all that tempts, corrupts thee there-
Ambition's lures, false Fashion's glare,
From lust of Wealth, and schemes of Pride,
One brief hour turn aside—

And, hearts subdued, with thoughtful eye,
Here learn how soon Life's vanity

Shall cease its mockings-teach thy soul
To win a worthier goal-

And on Death's solemn Threshold see
Glimpses of Immortality!

Peace to this Place of Rest!

'T is common earth no longer now,
The gleaning sickle, and the laboring plow
Here cease their toil-for holy grounds
Are Gardens of the Grave-the bounds
'Twixt Life and Death-the awful "bourne
From whence no traveler doth return,"

Is peopled with dim mysteries

The Spirit-Realm around us lies!

Peace to these Shades! these hills and Dells,

Where silence, like a Presence, dwells!

Rest to the Sleeping Dead!

The billows of the stormy World

Urge their frail barques no more

To bleak Oblivion's shore,

Where Empire's shattered wrecks are hurled

They tranquil lie, moored in strange rest,
Upon the Dead Sea's waveless breast.

Worn voyagers! burdened with life's woes,
Battling long with countless foes,

Seek ye, at the conflict's close,

Repose-Repose!

The Hon. G. W. Clinton delivered the following Address:

The formal dedication of our new Cemetery, my friends, may well inspire mingled emotions of mournful solemnity and chastened joy. It is an occasion favoring individual meditation, and religious musing, rather than promising profit from a lay discourse. I feel that this beauteous scene is hallowed. It is already consecrated by two graves, marking the indiscriminate destructiveness of insatiate Death. Here, "after life's fitful fever," a man reposes from the vicissitudes of a long and troubled being, and "sleeps well”— and here, too, a tender child—an opening bud, which was withered, and exhaled its perfume untimeously to heaven-is passing into dust: and the wide interval between these, its first tenants, will soon be filled, and this City of the Dead grow populous from the ranks of those who toil, enjoy, and suffer in the neighbor City of the Living. Truly this is holy ground, and it becomes us reverently to put off our shoes as we

approach it, and to stand upon it in all humility as we devote it to the dead forever.

In the judgment of unfeeling reason, it may be indifferent what treatment the living render unto the dead.

"Can storied urn and animated bust

Back to its mansion call the fleeting breath?
Can honor's voice provoke the silent dust,

Or flattery soothe the dull, cold ear of death?"

True, indeed, it is, that it matters nothing to the insensate body, bereft of spirit, whether it is mourned over and bewailed, and then reluctantly committed with sad funeral rites to the bosom of the earth, or thrown carelessly aside to be devoured by dogs, or thrust upon a dung-hill. It may be true, that the immortal spirit can feel no sympathy with its deserted tabernacle-that the soul feels not any insult or indignity the corpse may suffer, and is touched not by any honors that are paid to it. But, thank God! men are in these, as in all high and holy things, governed by a loftier reason than that which rests in mere material knowledge or in logicby that instinctive reason, incorporate with our being, which we call sentiment-which subserves higher interests, and leads to purer joys than any the mere utilitarian consults, or aims at, in his barren speculations. Grant that the mournful