Lexington gazette. [volume] (Lexington, Va.) 1871-1962, 1903-02-25
The Old Sexton and the Lexing-
ton Cemetery.

For The Gazette.
The sexton, erstwhile young ant
stout,
Has grown in service gray,
But still he bears, both in and out
The burdens of the day.
AS regent of three thousand tombs
A dolorous demesne,
He there the busy hours consume
From early morn to cen.
He moves about his wakeless ward
With muffled voice and tread,
AS if he meant to pay regards
To all the sleeping dead.
Each office seems a pleasure true
Each duty delight,
And ever there is much to do,
And many wrongs to right.
He pillows well the lowly head
Of every caste and class,
And smootheth DER each archinl
bed,
And mantles it with grass.
He keeps erect, thro' all the year
The monumental stones,
And, where there's no remem
brancer,
He knoweth the "unknowns."
Would-.we our Bibles knew as well
AS he his plot Of ground!
For he the look and lay can tell,
AT night, of every mound.
SO versatile about the dead,
Such his funeral lore,
He shameth those who've little read
And conned the Scriptures DER
The silent city is his theme
Its sleepers, wards and walks,
And facts and figures from hin
stream
In his informal talks.
Most beautiful his burial bower,
All canopied with trees,
And gemmed with many shrul
and flower,
The haunt Of birds and bees.
An hour is but a moment there
To one by interest led,
Who passes round from square t.
square,
Communing with the dead.
Sweet spot Gods ancient acre tbs,
And rich in treasured dust,
Which one day will arise to bliss,
And reign among the just.
Could We but brush the mist away
That veileth the unseen,
We'd see the angels, night and day,
Thronging the solemn scene.
Yes, could we see, we'd realize
How near those wardens are
To the believer, when he dies,
To guard his dust with care.
They vie in every service done
With the old sexton true,
And we should honor both, as one,
And render praises due.
How dear to memory the place
The body-planted plot!
Since many now in its embrace
Can never be forgot.
All! yes, and unrequited loves,
And hopes that promised fair
With wings as irised as the doves,
Lie dead and buried there!
There Jackson, and the shades
serene
OF many Southern braves,
Keep bivouac in their tents unseen,
The camping ground their graves.
Both governors and generals,
And men Of humber sphere,
And merchants and professionals,
Rest there together near.
And many women, young and fair,
And wives and west ones
Of every age and rank are there,
As silent as the stones.
Fen four and twenty ministers,
The legates of the Lord,
Are favored there with sepulchres
That perfect peace afford.
And one is there, who woOed the
Muse
With her poetic heart,
And some, who metaphors could
use,
But lacked the poets art.
Yea, Noah's Ham has even three
TO represent him there,
Sepultured by Fate's irony
Each in valued square.
For more than a long century
The dead have, one by one,
Been marching there, like soldiery,
To rest, life's labors done.
And there Wen let them sleep in
peace,
Till times last reveille,-
Until earth's warning sound shall
cease
Until the Rising Day.
Such is the end of earthly life,
OF pain and pleasure too,
IF toll, of sorrow, and Of strife,
Whatever man may do.
Ah yes, the mortal, yelled In gloom,
Must crumble into mould,
Until the rending of the tomb,
By holy men foretold.
Then in its own identity |
Twill house again the soul,
md be in bliss, or misery,
While endless ages roll.
he sunshine shimmers thro' the
trees,