It stands as an appropriate sentinel near the entrance
to the burial-yard where Irving sleeps. After entering the gate our
way leads past the graves of the Ackers, the Van Tassels, and the Van
Warts, with inscriptions and plump Dutch cherubs on every side
that often delighted the heart of Diedrich Knickerbocker. How many
worshippers since that November day in 1859, have come hither with
reverent footsteps to read on the plain slab this simple inscription:
"Washington Irving, born April 3, 1783. Died November 28, 1859," and
recall Longfellow's beautiful lines:
"Here lies the gentle humorist, who died
In the bright Indian Summer of his fame.
A simple stone, with but a date and name,
Marks his secluded resting place beside
The river that he loved and glorified.
Here in the Autumn of his days he came,
But the dry leaves of life were all aflame
With tints that brightened and were multiplied.
How sweet a life was his, how sweet a death;
Living to wing with mirth the weary hours,
Or with romantic tales the heart to cheer;
Dying to leave a memory like the breath
Of Summers full of sunshine and of showers,
A grief and gladness in the atmosphere.
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