Una salus ambobus erit. Virg.
I stood upon the burial-ground
That lies o'er Ida's hill;
The sun was going calmly down,
And earth and heaven were still;
No sound, save that of Poesten's fall,
Deep down his dark ravine;
And shades began, o'er Ida's brow,
To lengthen o'er the scene.
Beneath my feet lay many a friend
That I had loved full well,
Now dwelling in that narrow house
Where all are doomed to dwell.
And I beheld a new-made grave,
That stood enclosed with one
Which I had often wet with tears—
Thine, Warren! Sire and Son!
Alas! that I who sung so late
The patriarch sire's decease,
So soon should raise a requiem
For thee and thy release—
But there ye slumber side by side,
The sainted son and sire;
Like yonder evening's sun ye set—
God's chosen thus expire.
The tenor of your lives the same,
The same in death your peace;
The same salvation winged each soul
To joys that may not cease;
And now with saints of ages past
In paradise ye rest—
'Tis God's own word—'the dead, who die
In Christ the Lord, are blest.'
The Family Visiter and Sunday School Magazine 1(12). June 6, 1829. 135.
Curtis, George H., ed. Poems by the Late Rev. John W. Curtis, M.A. NY: Edward O. Jenkins, 1846. 108-109.