  When, in old days, our fathers came To bury low their dead, Unto the far-off eastern sky They turned the narrow bed. They laid the sleeper on his couch With firm and simple faith That cloudless morn would surely come To end the night of death; And thus they sought to place him where, When life’s clear sun should rise, Its earliest rays might wakening fall Across his close-sealed eyes. Like a faint fragrance lingering on Throughout unnumbered years, Still in our country burial-grounds The custom sweet appears; Still, when the light of life from eyes Beloved is withdrawn, The sleepers’ dreamless beds are made Facing the looked-for dawn. There, as the seasons pass, they seem Serenely to await The certain radiance of that Morn That cometh soon or late. |
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