Garden of the quiet dead, Seed ground of eternity, Many a weary lieart and head Longs for silence and for thee ; Here shall sorrow's hand no more Sweep the soul's discordant strings, And the lyre which oft before Thrilled tojoy's young carrolings, Voiceless list from morn till even - But it shall be rung in heaven. Island art thou of the biest, In life's ever heaving sea ; Here earth's weary ones may rest From the billows revelry : Kage ye winds that vex the. sky, Chilling winter intp deáth, - But where these sweet sleepers He Hush your voices to a breath ; Kiss the roseo ti1,! tliey yield Perfume to the stilly field, Heaven's eiuvance-way thou art, From beggar's hut and chair of sate ; ïhe throbbings of the dying heart Are on'y knockings at the gate Ötlier homes may scorn to yield Shelter from the bitter rain - At thy door, O burial-fleld, Pilgrim never knocked. in yai:i ; On thy b raast we stül may fall, Earth, thou_mother oLus all ! Lulled to sleep in thine embrace, Many a weary babe shall lie, And'the chief whose visored face Bleached not at the battle cry ; Here no more the bride shall dream Of the rose, less fair than she. And olive-shaded Academe Shall flee ft om Plato's memory. Oh mysterieus place of rest, Take thy children to thy breast !