I.
In sad reflection thee I scan,
Lone tenant of this cell;
Oh, could’st thou speak to mortal man,
What mysteries would’st thou tell!
II.
Here hast thou lain in sleep profound,
And years, long years, have fled,
Since friends and loved ones, gathering round,
Wept o’er thy lowly bed.
III.
Perchance through long and lonely hours,
With heart-sick grief they mourned;
And clad thy early grave with flowers,
As oft as spring returned.
IV.
Perchance ’twas wit or beauty’s queen,
Or wealth, that here lies low;
But who or what thou may’st have been,
It matters nothing now.
V.
What thoughts were thine, what dreams of fame,
What pride that would transcend!
But grief, or guilt, or woe, or shame,
All here would seem to end.
VI.
We little know, perchance thy bier
Was borne by willing knave,
Whose ruthless hand hath laid thee here
To fill a pauper’s grave.
VII.
In sad reflection thee I scan,
Lone tenant of this cell;
Oh, could’st thou speak to mortal man,
What mysteries would’st thou tell!
VIII.
Now all is o’er—how vain, how weak,
Are earthly strife and power—
The bubble on the brooklet’s cheek,
The tempest of an hour.
IX.
Oh, human pride, how weak, how vain!
An evanescent breath;
Oh life!—the memory of a pain,
That will not die with death.
X.
What checkered things our lives will be,
How awful to behold,
When in eternity we see
Life’s motley web unrolled!