We cite the following here, to show still farther the solemnity of his musings, and mellifluous perfection of his versification. Mark how the _liquid_ sounds melt into melody in the lines which ensue:
'YOU must know, reader, that there lieth, some three miles or so from Brotherly Love--a city of this continent, a delectable city--a place of burial, 'Laurel Hill' by name. On a sweeter spot the great sun never threw the day-spring of the morning, nor the blush of the evening west. There the odors and colors of nature profusely repose; there, to rest of a spring or summer afternoon, on some rural seat, looking at trees, and dancing waters, and the like, you would wonder at that curious question addressed of DEAN SWIFT, on his death-bed, to a friend at his side: 'Did you ever know of any really _good weather_ in this world?' You would take the affirmative. Well, thus I sang:
'HERE the lamented dead in dust shall lie, Life's lingering languors o'er--its labors done; Where waving boughs, betwixt the earth and sky, Admit the farewell radiance of the sun.
'Here the long concourse from the murmuring town, With funeral pace and slow, shall enter in; To lay the loved in tranquil silence down, No more to suffer, and no more to sin.
'And here the impressive stone, engraved with words Which Grief sententious gives to marble pale, Shall teach the heart, while waters, leaves and birds Make cheerful music in the passing gale.
'Say, wherefore should we weep, and wherefore pour On scented airs the unavailing sigh-- While sun-bright waves are quivering to the shore, And landscapes blooming--that the loved should die?
'There is an emblem in this peaceful scene: Soon, rainbow colors on the woods will fall; And autumn gusts bereave the hills of green, As sinks the year to meet its cloudy pall.
'Then, cold and pale, in distant vistas round, Disrobed and tuneless, all the woods will stand: While the chained streams are silent as the ground, As death had numbed them with his icy hand.
'Yet, when the warm soft winds shall rise in spring, Like struggling day-beams o'er a blasted heath; The bird returned shall poise her golden wing, And liberal nature break the spell of death.
'So, when the tomb's dull silence finds an end, The blessed Dead to endless youth shall rise; And hear the archangel's thrilling summons blend Its tones with anthems from the upper skies.