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ODE.

READ AT THE DEDICATION OF FOREST LAWN CEMETERV,
SEPTEMBER 28, 1866.
BY REV. JOHN C. LORD, D. D.
Place for the dead—
Not in the noisy city’s crowd and glare,
By heated walls and dusty streets, but where
The balmy breath of the free summer air
Moves murmuring softly o’er the new-made grave,
Rustling among the boughs which wave
Above the dwellers there.
Rest for the dead— 1
Far, far from the turmoil and strife of trade,
Let the broken house of the soul be laid,
Where the violets blossom in the shade,
And the voices of Nature do softly fall
Over the silent sleepers all—
Where rural graves are made.
Room for the dead—
Away from the crowded and ghastly caves,
Where the dead lie heap’d and the thick strewn graves
Do jostle each other like following waves—
56DEDICA TOR Y ODE.
In the place where earth’s broad bosom yields
Room for the dead, in woods and fields,
Which dying nature craves.
Place for the dead—
In the quiet glen where the wild vines creep,
And the desolate mourner may wait and weep,
In some silent place, o’er the loved who sleep;
Nor sights, nor sounds profane, disturb their moan—
With God and with the dead alone—
“Deep calleth unto deep.”
Rest for the dead—
Away from all walls—where the wild bird sings,
And the hurrying cloud its shadow flings
O’er streamlet and rock, where the ivy clings
To the ancient oak—the dead should lie,
Till on the ear of death the cry
Of final judgment rings.
Peace for the dead—
After life’s warfare let the dead repose
Where no levies are made—no usurer goes,
No taxes, no debts, no pecuniary woes,
To transfer to strangers the sanctified ground
Which the wayworn and weary have happily found—
Where Lethe, waveless, flows.
Homes for the dead—
Where the kindred who dwell together here,
May guard their own Necropolis, and rear
The Household Marble—as the sombre bier
Brings each departed to the destined home—
Let the name be graven on the stone-—
To memory ever dear.DEDICA TOR V ODE.
79
Room for the dead—
The living wait their doom, the gay, the strong,
The beautiful, together soon must throng
The doors of death, and they who mourn, ere long,
Must lie with kindred dust, and, soon or late,
All pass the ever open gate—
Room—room, Oh! give them room!