Poem by Eliza Acton

The Grave

There is a low and lonely place of rest,
Upon whose couch the worn and wearied frame
Reposes in forgetfulness,—and there,
The streaming eye of misery is clos'd
In sweet and dreamless slumber;—on that bed
The painful beatings of the breaking heart
Are hush'd to stillness; and the harrowing pangs
Of hopeless agony, are felt no more!
Around that silent dwelling-place, the veil
Of darkness curtains closely:—not a sigh,
Nor lightest whisp'ring of the summer-wind
Steals on the breathless and eternal calm,
Which o'er that region spreads its canopy!

1. Revenge
2. Nay! Take the Rose
3. Come to My Grave
4. Venice
5. The Lover's Song

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