THE CHURCHYARD
1
‘The graves of those we loved’,
How beautiful they lie;
From every care and strife removed;
Beneath heavens canopy.
2
Think of the hand that led you on,
In childhoods happy way;
A guide where 'ere your steps have gone,
That would not lead astray!
3
The father is a real friend,
The mother something more,
And when the churchyard holds them both,
The hope of life is o'er!
4
The maiden when she leaves the church,
Stands where the nettles wave;
Upon a mound against the porch,
—It is her mothers grave!
5
The brother looks among the tombs,
His sisters name to see;
Gone like a blossom just in bloom,
How beautiful was she!
6
The stone with sculpture spread about
From fondest love was given.
But dear the mounds of those without,
In memories of the living.
7
And o'er her brother's grave—(that was.)
The sister bending sighs,
While like the dew drops in the grass,
Tears glisten in her eyes!
8
A small low stone denotes the spot,—
The little mound is green;
Strangers go by and notice not,—
There sleeps the ‘village queen’.
9
A sweetheart's name reposes there,
Beneath that little stone;
To one, o' she was more than fair;
And dearer now she's gone!
10
These resting places of the dead,
How beautiful they lie;
The green grass turf above them spread,
Beneath a summer sky.
