Come part the crowd, and open a way,
For those who are seeking the grave;
Some are pressing on in the light of day,
Some by the moon's obscurer ray,
Some on land and some on the wave.
Now come with me to the festive hall,
Where in mirth they dance and sing,
Till echo is answered by echo's call,
As the merry peals ring from one and all;
To the grave they swiftly wing.
Again with me, come haste away
Where the theatre shines so bright,
For there the lamps, with their peerless ray,
Have darkness changed into brighter day.
They gaze on the stage with delight!
Come follow this crowd which moves as the wave
On the gently ebbing sea;
With the scenes of the night their bosoms heave,
But little they think the next is the grave,
Not of the stage--but eternity.
See, reckless youth--maturer age
Alike are far from heaven;
In festive scenes their time engage--
They idly sport--they madly rage--
While to the grave they are driven.
Ye may trace their path as ye move along
The busy crowds of care;
In the house of God--in the house of song--
In distant isles--the waves among,
To the grave they must all repair.
So part the crowd, and open a way,
For those who are seeking the grave;
Some are pressing on in the light of day,
Some by the moon's obscurer ray,
Some on land and some on the wave.
For the Southern Literary Messenger.