Ye frivolous, ye reckless and ye gay,
Whose only thought is how to speed time on,
To sport life's summer hours away
And take no heed of moments lost or gone.
Come to our burial ground, that dread abode,
The dark, the silent, and the gloomy house for all,
Where, while the spirit stands before its God,
The mortal part awaits his judgment call.
Look on those graves, wherein are peaceful laid
Honor and beauty, youth and worth and fame—
Look on those graves, and let your mirth be stayed—
This was their fate, and yours must be the same.
Beneath yon humble monument lies one
Whom talents, wit and fancy could not save—
His heart beat high beneath last summer's sun—
The winter snows fell coldly on his grave.
His memory still lives—his friends retain
The dear remembrance of his former worth—
Theirs was the loss, but his the lasting gain—
His spirit was too pure to stay on earth.
He rests not there alone: the young, the old
The curls of youth and the time-whitened head,
Silent repose beneath the earthy mould
That covers this still City of the Dead.
Albany, April 8th, 1827. V. V. V.
Albany Argus. April 17, 1827: 3 col 3.
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