The American common-place book of poetry with occasional notes |
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Lines on passing the Grave of my Sister.—Micah P. Flint.
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 | The American common-place book of poetry |  |
Lines on passing the Grave of my Sister.—Micah P. Flint.
On yonder shore, on yonder shore,
Now verdant with the depth of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. A brother weeps.
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
Now verdant with the depth of shade,
Beneath the white-armed sycamore,
There is a little infant laid.
Forgive this tear. A brother weeps.
'Tis there the faded floweret sleeps.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone,
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmured at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.
And summer's forests o'er her wave;
And sighing winds at autumn moan
Around the little stranger's grave,
As though they murmured at the fate
Of one so lone and desolate.
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In sounds that seem like Sorrow's own,
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
Then, deep'ning to an organ tone,
In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.
Their funeral dirges faintly creep;
Then, deep'ning to an organ tone,
In all their solemn cadence sweep,
And pour, unheard, along the wild,
Their desert anthem o'er a child.
She came, and passed. Can I forget,
How we, whose hearts had hailed her birth,
Ere three autumnal suns had set,
Consigned her to her mother Earth!
Joys and their memories pass away;
But griefs are deeper traced than they.
How we, whose hearts had hailed her birth,
Ere three autumnal suns had set,
Consigned her to her mother Earth!
Joys and their memories pass away;
But griefs are deeper traced than they.
We laid her in her narrow cell,
We heaped the soft mould on her breast,
And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell
Upon her lonely place of rest.
May angels guard it;—may they bless
Her slumbers in the wilderness.
We heaped the soft mould on her breast,
And parting tears, like rain-drops, fell
Upon her lonely place of rest.
May angels guard it;—may they bless
Her slumbers in the wilderness.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As, in one broad, eternal tide,
Its rolling waters onward glide.
For, all unheard, on yonder shore,
The sweeping flood, with torrent moan,
At evening lifts its solemn roar,
As, in one broad, eternal tide,
Its rolling waters onward glide.
There is no marble monument,
There is no stone, with graven lie,
To tell of love and virtue blent
In one almost too good to die.
We needed no such useless trace
To point us to her resting place.
There is no stone, with graven lie,
To tell of love and virtue blent
In one almost too good to die.
We needed no such useless trace
To point us to her resting place.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
But, midst the tears of April showers,
The genius of the wild hath strown
His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers,
And cast his robe of vernal bloom,
In guardian fondness, o'er her tomb.
But, midst the tears of April showers,
The genius of the wild hath strown
His germs of fruits, his fairest flowers,
And cast his robe of vernal bloom,
In guardian fondness, o'er her tomb.
She sleeps alone, she sleeps alone;
But yearly is her grave-turf dressed,
And still the summer vines are thrown,
In annual wreaths, across her breast.
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
But yearly is her grave-turf dressed,
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In annual wreaths, across her breast.
And still the sighing autumn grieves,
And strews the hallowed spot with leaves.
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