 | The bells |  |
89
BERTHABELL.
Where an ivy vine is creeping,
And tears of dew-drops weeping,
They tell me thou art sleeping,
Berthabell!
And tears of dew-drops weeping,
They tell me thou art sleeping,
Berthabell!
I have often sat alone
And read on the dark gray stone,
With green mosses over-grown,
“Berthabell.”
And read on the dark gray stone,
With green mosses over-grown,
“Berthabell.”
I know we laid thee there,
With thy forehead cold and fair!
But now thou art otherwhere,
Berthabell!
With thy forehead cold and fair!
But now thou art otherwhere,
Berthabell!
90
Thy soul stole forth in flowers,
That fainted 'neath the showers
On thy grave, in April hours,
Berthabell!
That fainted 'neath the showers
On thy grave, in April hours,
Berthabell!
O! I nevermore will come
And be weeping at this tomb;
It is all too full of gloom,
Berthabell!
And be weeping at this tomb;
It is all too full of gloom,
Berthabell!
I will rather seek the glade
Where the willows throw their shade,
Where our shattered vows were made,
Berthabell!
Where the willows throw their shade,
Where our shattered vows were made,
Berthabell!
I will watch the willow swing,
I will hear the streamlet sing,
And kind memory will bring
Berthabell!
I will hear the streamlet sing,
And kind memory will bring
Berthabell!
| The bells | |