the dark winds pass'd by.
My pulse has quicken'd with its awe,
My lip has gasp'd for breath;
But what were they to such as this--
The solitude of death?

"A single grave!--we half forget
How sunder human ties,
When round the silent place of rest
A gather'd kindred lies.
We stand beneath the haunted yew,
And watch each quiet tomb,
And in the ancient churchyard feel
Solemnity, not gloom!

"The place is purified with hope--
The hope, that is, of prayer;
And human love, and heavenward thought,
And pious faith, are there!
The wild flowers spring amid the grass,
And many a stone appears
Carved by affection's memory,
Wet with affection's tears.

"The golden chord which binds us all
Is loosed, not rent in twain;
And love, and hope, and fear, unite
To bring the past again.
But _this_ grave is so desolate,
With no remembering stone,
No fellow-graves for sympathy,--
'Tis utterly alone!

"I do not know who sleeps beneath,
His history or name,
Whether, if lonely in his life,
He is in death the same,--
Whether he died unloved, unmourn'd,
The last leaf on the bough,
Or if some desolated hearth
Is weeping for him now?

"Perhaps this is too fanciful,
Though single be his sod,
Yet not the less it has around
The presence of his God!
It may be weakness of the heart,
But yet its kindliest, best;
Better if in our selfish world
It could be less repress'd.

"Those gentler charities which draw
Man closer with his kind,
Those sweet humilities which make
The music which they find:
How many a bitter word 't would hush,
How many a pang 't would save,
If life more precious held those ties
Which sanctify the grave."

Now (1860) the grave-stone has received two additional inscriptions, and
the character of the upright stone has been altered.

[Picture: Reeve's Grave] Corpe was a ladies' shoemaker, and his son
carried on that business at No. 126 Mount Street, Berkeley Square, after
the father's death. While sketching the grave, the sexton came up, and
observed, "No one has ever noticed that grave, sir, before, so much as to
draw it out for a pattern, as I suppose you are doing."

John Reeve's grave ("alas, poor Yorick!") is in the first avenue at the
back of the church, to the left hand, a