WHERE ALL IS LIFE, 
By Joun P. SILVERNAIL. 
It has not been my lot to tread 
Along the paths of glorious Time, 
Where buried lie the immortal dead 
Who flourished in Earth’s natal prime. 
Not mine to muse on Helicon, 
Nor walk in rapturous reverie, 
Where “the mountains look on Marathon 
And Marathon looks on the sea.” 
Not mine to catch the Muses’ strains 
Above the moist Boeotian plains, 
Nor listen, with my soul on fire, 
To rapt Apollo’s rhythmic lyre. 
But I have walked where none but God 
Had gazed the enchanted scene along, 
Where never human foot had trod 
The dim-aisled, forest shades among. 
Where rocky ramparts rose around, 
Aspiring to the height of Heaven. 
I’ve stood 'mid silence so protound, 
It seemed that to my eyes ’twere given 
To see Earth in her primal morn, 
Ere sound and life and love were born— 
Have seemed to lose all sense of space 
And ineet my Maker face to face. 
Within those peaceful solitudes 
No ‘‘ Thanatopsis” e’er is heard 
But Nature’s mighty interludes 
And Nature’s God’s omnific word ; 
For, as in Eden, long ago, 
He walked at evening’s fragrant hour, 
So here, ‘neath mellow sunset’s glow, 
Show fair the footprints of His power, 
Where rotting rock yields to the touch 
Of rootlets’ soil-creating clutch, 
While bright the snow-capped summits shine 
Above the ascending timber lime. 
Each breeze, each rain drop, and each ray 
That streams from forth the vernal sun, 
Speaks of a resurrection day 
And tells of labor just begun. 
In these new Edens of the earth 
No graves are found—all, all is life, 
Even as when Time first had its birth, 
Ere brother’s hand was raised in strife? 
Prithivi-like the earth brings forth 
All forms of grace and matchless worth, 
While everything breathes prophecy 
Of something yet about to be. 
Thro’ all her frame’ th’ embracing God 
Sends thrills of wondrous ecstacy, 
Till, all transformed, the lifeless clod 
Smiles, blooms and brightens gloriously. 
Glad flowers spring with fragrant breath, 
And climbing vine and budding tree 
Proclaim such triumph over death 
That song birds wake their minstrelsy ; 
Each leaf responds to zephyr soft, 
The torrent lifts its voice aloft, 
While everything in Nature saith: 
‘‘ There is no death! there is no death!” 
Never, where ruined empire sleeps, 
And buried greatness, turned to dust, 
Still its unbroken silence keeps 
"Neath storied urn or marble bust, 
May it be mine to walk and dream, 
Recalling all their vanished pride, 
Until once more to live they seem, 
And walk in grandeur at my side; 
Nor where the radiant sons of men 
Have been resolved to earth again, 
Till earth seems but the burial place 
Of Adam’s sin-cursed, mortal race. 
But oh! what joy to breathe the air 
Where God’s unfinished gardens shine, 
Where myriad forms rise new and fair 
Beneath His touch divine; 
To watch a new creation spring 
Where funeral dirge was never sung, 
And hear resounding echoes ring 
The mountain crags among, 
While glaciers grind their grist of rock 
‘Mid avalanche roar and earthquake shock, 
Till Nature’s transformation scene 
Shows rocky ranges robed in green. 
