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107
ANNIE'S GRAVE.
The mournful billows burst along the solitary shore,
The night-wind answers fitfully their sad and ceaseless roar;
But quietly the moonbeams creep, and softly, softly sighs
The night-wind round the lonely mound where in her youth she lies.
The night-wind answers fitfully their sad and ceaseless roar;
But quietly the moonbeams creep, and softly, softly sighs
The night-wind round the lonely mound where in her youth she lies.
No vulgar marble marks the spot of her unnoted rest,
But the wild rose blossoms at her head, the violet on her breast,
And soft green moss haps tenderly her cold and stirless feet;
Ah! fitting such a grave, for one so young, so pure, so sweet!
But the wild rose blossoms at her head, the violet on her breast,
And soft green moss haps tenderly her cold and stirless feet;
Ah! fitting such a grave, for one so young, so pure, so sweet!
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Since Annie died long years have past of mingled joy and pain,
But one so fair I have not found, nor shall I find again,
Till, by the Crystal Sea, once more I clasp her gentle hand;—
O, I shall know thy face, Annie, 'mong all the shining band!
But one so fair I have not found, nor shall I find again,
Till, by the Crystal Sea, once more I clasp her gentle hand;—
O, I shall know thy face, Annie, 'mong all the shining band!
For, as the morning fills with light a sphere of lily-dew,
That pale, pellucid face of thine the soul shone ever through:—
A soul as free from worldly guile, as pure from earthly stain,
As ever pined for mortal love—and pined, alas! in vain.
That pale, pellucid face of thine the soul shone ever through:—
A soul as free from worldly guile, as pure from earthly stain,
As ever pined for mortal love—and pined, alas! in vain.
But, Annie, we were both so young in that sweet time of sighs!
And though by fits I caught the deep, sad meaning of thine eyes,
A spell was on my heart and brain—a spell I could not break,
Until I read the wild Too Late on thy cold, unconscious cheek.
And though by fits I caught the deep, sad meaning of thine eyes,
A spell was on my heart and brain—a spell I could not break,
Until I read the wild Too Late on thy cold, unconscious cheek.
109
Yet, if the heart-corroding rain of penitential tears,
The sorrow and the sacrifice, of long and lonely years,
Can expiate the unconscious wrong I did thy virgin love—
Thou wilt not turn away, Annie, when I meet thee there above! . . .
The sorrow and the sacrifice, of long and lonely years,
Can expiate the unconscious wrong I did thy virgin love—
Thou wilt not turn away, Annie, when I meet thee there above! . . .
One rosebud from thy grave, Annie,—as though with tears, 'tis wet!—
One tiny tuft of velvet moss, one sweet-souled violet,
One sigh for “auld lang syne,” Annie,—for youth, and love, and thee;
And I must leave thee evermore to thy rest beside the sea.
One tiny tuft of velvet moss, one sweet-souled violet,
One sigh for “auld lang syne,” Annie,—for youth, and love, and thee;
And I must leave thee evermore to thy rest beside the sea.
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