The bed of my parents is narrow and deep,
Yet soft is their slumber, and sweet is their sleep;
Their children in vain o’er their damp pillow weep,
And utter their sorrows mournfully.
The pastor lies pillowed in dust by their side.
To whom in close friendship their hearts were allied;
But in youth he afar from his relatives died.
And there he reposes peacefully.
They dwell near together, but mute is the tongue
On whose pious instructions with rapture they hung,
And in silence, the clods of the valley among.
Are the friends who once loved so tenderly.
Around their dark dwelling the wild tempest raves,
Above it the hemlock still mournfully waves,
But the evergreen lifts its bright leaf on their graves,
Emblem of their immortality
As in life, so in death, they were strangers to fame.
No sepulchral stone is inscribed with their name,
And the sculptor ne’er labored with art to proclaim
Their faith, or their hope, or their charity.
But theirs is a record emblazoned on high.
And although the green turf on their bodies now lie,
Their spirits exult in the bright, blissful sky,
And reign with the Savior gloriously.
Then, while we are mourning the stroke of the rod.
We no longer will dwell on the mouldering sod.
But believe in their Savior, and trust in their God,
And follow the path of their piety.
Then, when the last trumpet resounds in the skies.
And the sleepers in dust from their slumbers arise.
We shall meet them in peace with ecstatic surprise,
And share in their pleasures eternally.
by John Newton Brown (1820)