The voice of freedom. [volume] (Montpelier, Vt.) 1839-1848, 1846-12-24
Greenwood Cemetery.

Once IN the life Of every man will an hour
arrive when the cares and perpleXitics ofeXist-
cncc are forgotten, and the tedium OF our al
lotmcnts are swallowed up, as it were, in the
busy, yet melancholy themes, which fancy
sometimes loves to engendcr in our minds
These moments frequently arrive in the midst
Of turmoil and strife-in the dulloncrous Wig
lis of business-in the hurry and confusion
Of politics; and then it is that we forget
everything but the viSion-idcal of our
thoughts, though these reflections awaken
within us the pangs Of remorsc or sorrow, or
wander back to scenes which otherwise are
passed, aud buried forever in the lapse Of time
Man is a social being-social not only with
his tellowman, but commitment with the
clod of the valley. The sympathies Of the
living with the dead are acute and hallowed :;
and though, in the mute language Of their
mysterious intercourse, little is really reveal
ed, the heart will understand its tendencies,
and linger about the courts of death like the
clustering tcndril8 of the ivy, companion and
friend, and source of abiding affection. We
sometime ago paid Greenwood Cemetery a
vista short one, but long enough to write
upon memory's page remembrance its sa-
cred mysteries, its august gloom, and its ven
cradle shades 1t was the heyday of summer
The gay earth had been newly clad and leaf
and tree shone resplendcnt in the sun-rays Of
another year, with inyigoratod beauty. Ma
ture in the plcnitude Of her kindness, had
made full tender Of her charms to Green
wood, for never was place dccked with more
gorgeous forest attractions, or planned with
better taste by the artful mother for such q
melancholy purpose. The vast sepulchre was
a silent mausoeum yet a thousand birds sang
amid the boughs that bent their foliage above
the unnumbered graves, and at the same time
hundred tongues whispered their silent
adeu to the ashes of the still remembered
dead. 1t was silent,save the sounds ofmoum
ing that occasionally famed their way to the
ear of the obtruder Silent, save the melan-
choly echo Of the funeral chant, as it brushed
above the grave Of many Gstlcss slceper.-
We walked through the studded aisles, a
stranger in the land Of strangcrs-amid the
great and nob!c--the poor and the wretched
All had a common bed, but not a common
tomb. A hoaycn-aspiring shaft suddenly rose
over the PROSTATE slab of Il " lesser being" or
a sculpturcd urn anon told the passer-by that
wealth had knclt to the mandate of death.
while poverty, lost in the blades of grass with
but an humble stone to mark its site, was for
gotten. Yet the inscriptions here and there
to be met with, written by the finger of decay,
could not be mistaken; it was " dust to dust,
ashes to ashes, earth to EARTH" wherever the
eye turned, Or inclination sought the query.
And as we wandered through the thousand
labyrinths Of the hallowed spot, we were led
inadvertently to sum up the existence, the
life, the pursuits, and the causes of the final
exit of those present. But time had made no
exceptions in their mortal dissolution, howev-
ever Fortune may have smiled upon Them or
Wealth supported them. The noel, panoply
that shrouded from the mortal gaze the mould
ering corpse, was but an unavailing barrier
against the keen eye of truth. The allot-
ments Of life may separate; but the ceremcnts
of the tomb combine, connect and tic. There
is no avoidance Of this law-nothine but the
impotency Of man-and that is unstable as
water. Still Greenwood is an inviting ground.
Its awful desolation is enlivened by natural
attractions, and the visitation of strangers and
friends, whose footsteps re-echo through the
marble hillocks with peculiar awe, and whose