Grave of Elizabeth Weed, Wife of Alfred Billings Street, ca. 1993
The following sentimental verses were written for the Cemetery's consecration ceremony in 1844. On that occasion, poet Alfred Billings Street read his composition to the crowd assembled in a small, natural amphitheater overlooking one of the Cemetery's scenic lakes. The poem was reprinted in the local newspapers in the following days, as well as in two collections of Street's poetry and in Henry P. Phelps' book, The Albany Rural Cemetery - Its Beauties, Its Memories.
Alfred B. Street - who is profiled here - is buried in a section of the South Ridge known as Greenleaf Forest. His grave is unmarked, but lies next to that of his wife, Elizabeth Weed Street.
When life's last breath has faintly
ebbed away,
And naught is left but cold
unconscious clay,
Still doth Affection bend in anguish
deep ,
O'er the pale brow to fondly gaze and
weep.
What though the soul hath soared in
chainless flight;
Round the spurned frame still plays a
sacred light,
A hallowed radiance never to depart,
Poured from its solemn source, the
stricken heart.
Not to the air should then be given
the dead,
Not to the flame, nor yet cold ocean's
bed,
But to the earth, -- the earth from
whence it rose,
There should the frame be left to its
repose.
There our great mother guards her holy
trust,
Spreads her green mantle o'er the
sleeping dust;
There glows the sunshine – there the
branches wave,
And birds yield song flowers fragrance
round the
grave.
There oft to hold communion do we
stray,
There droops our mourning memory when
away,
And e'en when years have passed, our
homeward feet
Seek first with eager haste that spot
to greet;
And the fond hope lives ever in our
breast
When death, too, claims us there, our
dust shall rest.
All these fair grounds with lavish
beauties spread,
Nature's sweet charms – we yield
them to the dead.
Those swelling uplands whence the
raptured sight
Drinks in the landscape smiling rich
and bright,
Woodlands and meadows trees and roofs
and rills,
The glittering river and the fronting
hills;
That nestling dell with bowery limbs
o'erhead,
And this its brother opening to the
tread,
Each with its naiad tripping low
along,
Striving to hide but freely offering
song;
These old deep woods where Nature wild
and rude
Has built a throne for musing
solitude,
Where sunshine scarce finds way to
shrub and moss,
And lies the fractured trunk the earth
across;
These winding paths that lead the
wandering feet
Through minster aisles and arbors dim
and sweet;
To soothe thy discord into harmony,
0 solemn, solemn Death, we dedicate to
thee.
Here will his steps the mourning
husband
With sympathizing Nature for his
friend;
In the low murmur of the pine he'll
hear
The voice that once was music to his
ear;
In the light waving of the bough will
view
The form that sunshine once around him
threw.
As the lone mother threads each leafy
bower
Her infant's looks will smile from
every flower,
Its laugh will echo in the warbling
glee,
Of every bird that flits from tree to
tree;
In the dead trunk laid prostrate by
the storm,
The child will see its perished
parent's form,
And in the sighing of the evening
breath
Will hear those faltering tones late
hushed in death.
Through these branched paths will
Contemplation wind,
And stamp wise Nature's teachings on
his mind;
As the white grave stones glimmer to
his eye,
A solemn voice will thrill him, “Thou
must die;”
When Autumn's tints are glittering in
the air,
That voice will whisper to his soul,
“Prepare;”
When Winter's snows are spread o'er
knoll and dell,
“Oh this is death,” that solemn
voice will swell;
But when with Spring, streams leap and
blossoms
wave,
“Hope, Christian, hope,” 't will
say, “there s life be-
yond the grave.”
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