Funeral at Nazareth

The Sabbath summer-sun declinedTo its bright, western goal,And o'er the green, Moravian valesSerene enchantment stole.

'T would seem as if the holy restOf heaven's anointed hour,Here found response in every breast,And breathed from every flower.

Then slowly from the house of GodCame forth a funeral train,And with a measured movement trodAlong the velvet plain.

The little coffin of a babeBorne in the midst was seen,While village children, two and two,Walked near, with serious mien.

Beside the church-yard gate they paused,And woke an anthem's thrill,While flutes and clarions mingled softWith music's perfect skill.

Methought it tenderly implored,Though not a word was said,Room for another guest to swellThe assembly of the dead.

Then through the unclosing gate they passed,And up the hillock wound,Where peaceful slept their kindred clayIn consecrated ground.

Nor weed, nor straw, nor mouldering leafDefaced their sacred bed,But tireless care, the chosen spotWith Nature's beauty spread.

Rich evergreens, and willows fairIn graceful ranks had grown,And thickly planted flowerets claspedEach horizontal stone.

And then the reverent Pastor read,As mid the graves he trod.In the deep German's solemn lore,Words from the Book of God.

"I am the resurrection, saithThe Lord, who life can give,And whosoe'er on me believes,Though he were dead, shall live."

Beside the narrow pit they stood,Grooved mid the verdure deep,And while the children bent to seeWhere the fair babe should sleep,—

Forth burst a glorious triumph-strain,As if from heaven it prest,The welcome of the seraph-trainTo some accepted guest:—

The welcome of the harps that praiseJehovah, night and day,To one that early 'scaped the snaresOf sinful, mortal clay.

Faith stood among the fragrant flowersThat decked the burial-sod,And cheerful gave the new-born soulBack to its Father, God.

While Music, with her angel-voiceSo quelled affliction's tide,That even upon the parent's cheekThe starting tear was dried.

So, wrapped in melody and love,That infant form was laid,Like sculptured marble, cold and pure,Within the hallowed shade.

And while the parting summer-sunSent forth a blessed ray,They smoothed its little pillowed turf,And calmly went their way.

Yet oft shall tender Memory touchWith light that never fails,That simple funeral scene, amidThe green Moravian vales.