So saying, offered he the holy rite, With arms extended praying God to spare, The while adoring knelt he humbly there. That people prostrate! oh, most solemn sight That church, its porticoes with moss o'ergrown, The ancient walls, dim light and Gothic panes, In its antiquity the brazen lamp A symbol of eternity doth stamp. A lasting sun. God's majesty down sent, Vows, tears and incense from the altars rise, Young beauties praying 'neath their mothers' eyes, Do soften by their voices innocent, The touching pomp religion there reveals; The organ hush'd, the sacred silence round, All, all uplifts, ennobles and inspires; Man feels himself transported where the choirs Of seraphim with harps of gold entone Low at Jehovah's feet their endless song. Then God doth make His awful presence known, Hides from the wise, to loving hearts is shown: He seeks less to be proved than to be felt. [1] From out the Church the multitudes depart, In separate groups unto th' abode they go Of tranquil death, their tears still silent flow. The standard of the Cross is borne apart, Sublime our songs for death their sacred theme, Now mixed with noise that heralds storms they seem; Now lower above our heads the dark'ning clouds, Our faces mournful, our funereal hymn Both air and landscape in our grief enshrouds. Towards death's tranquil haven, on we fare, The cypress, ivy, and the yew trees haunt The spot where thorns seem growing everywhere. Sparse lindens rise up grimly here and there, The winds rush whistling through their branches gaunt. Hard by a stream, my mind found there exprest In waves and tombs a twofold lesson drest, Eternal movement and eternal rest. Ah, with what holy joy these peasants fain Would honor parent dust; they seek with pride The stone or turf, concealing those allied To them by love, they find them here again. Alas, with us we may not seek the boon Of gazing on the ashes of our dead. Our dead are banish'd, on their rights we tread, Their bones unhonored at hap-hazard strewn. E'en now 'gainst us cry out their _Manes_ pale, Those nations and those times dire woes entail, 'Mongst whom in hearts grown weak by slow degree, The _cultus_ of the dead has ceased. Here, here, at least have they from wrong been free, Their heritage of peace preserving best. No sumptuous marbles burden names here writ, A shepherd, farmer, peasant, as is fit, Beneath these stones in tranquil slumber see; Perchance a Turenne, a Corneille they hide, Who lived obscure, e'en to himself unknown. But if from men he'd risen separate, Sublime in camps, the theatre, the state, His name by idol-loving worlds outcried, Would that have made his slumber here more sweet?