  BY MRS. LYDIA H. SIGOURNEY.City of marble! whose lone structures rise In pomp of sculpture beautifully rare, On thy still brow a mournful shadow lies, For round thy haunts no busy feet repair; No curling smoke ascends from roof-tree fair, Nor cry of warning time the clock repeats— No voice of Sabbath-bell doth call to prayer— There are no children playing in thy streets, Nor sounds of echoing toil invade thy green retreats. Rich vines around thy graceful columns wind, Young buds unfold, the dewy skies to bless, Yet no fresh wreaths thine inmates wake to bind— Prune no wild spray, nor pleasant garden dress— From no luxuriant flower its fragrance press— The golden sunsets through enwoven trees Tremble and flash, but they no praise express— They lift no casement to the balmy breeze, For fairest scenes of earth have lost their power to please. A ceaseless tide of emigration flows On through thy gates, for thou forbiddest none In thy close-curtained couches to repose, Or lease thy narrow tenements of stone, It matters not where first the sunbeam shone Upon their cradle—'neath the foliage free Where dark palmettos fleck the torrid zone, Or 'mid the icebergs of the Arctic sea— Thou dost no questions ask; all are at home with thee. One pledge alone they give, before their name Is with thy peaceful denizens enrolled— The vow of silence thou from each dost claim, More strict and stern than Sparta's rule of old, Bidding no secrets of thy realm be told, Nor slightest whisper from its precincts spread— Sealing each whitened lip with signet cold, To stamp the oath of fealty, ere they tread Thy never-echoing halls, oh city of the dead! 'Mid scenes like thine, fond memories find their home, For sweet it was to me, in childhood's hours, 'Neath every village church-yard's shade to roam, Where humblest mounds were decked with grassy flowers, And I have roamed where dear Mount Auburn towers, Where Laurel-Hill a cordial welcome gave To the rich tracery of its hallowed bowers, And where, by quiet Lehigh's crystal wave, The meek Moravian smooths his turf-embroidered grave: Where too, in Scotia, o'er the Bridge of Sighs, The Clyde's Necropolis uprears its head, Or that old abbey's sacred turrets rise Whose crypts contain proud Albion's noblest dead,— And where, by leafy canopy o'erspread, The lyre of Gray its pensive descant made— And where, beside the dancing city's tread, Famed PÈre La Chaise all gorgeously displayed Its meretricious robes, with chaplets overlaid. But thou, oh Greenwood! sweetest art to me, Enriched with tints of ocean, earth and sky, Solemn and sweet, to meditation free, Most like a mother, who with pleading eye Dost turn to Him who for the lost did die— And with thy many children at thy breast, Invoke His aid, with low and prayerful sigh, To bless the lowly pillow of their rest, And shield them, when the tomb no longer guards its guest. Calm, holy shades! we come to you for health,— Sickness is with the living—wo and pain— And dire diseases thronging on, by stealth From the worn heart its vital flood to drain, Or smite with sudden shaft the reeling brain, Till lingering on, with nameless ills distrest, We find the healer's vaunted armor vain, The undrawn spear-point in our bleeding breast,— Fain would we hide with you, and win the boon of rest. Sorrow is with the living! Youth doth fade— And Joy unclasp its tendril green, to die— The mocking tares our harvest-hopes invade, On wrecking blasts our garnered treasures fly, Our idols shame the soul's idolatry, Unkindness gnaws the bosom's secret core, Long-trusted friendship turns an altered eye When, helpless, we its sympathies implore— Oh! take us to your arms, that we may weep no more.
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