 | Songs of a Stranger |  |
80
WRITTEN AT B---.
Another year, fair scenes! has led my steps
Back to your shades again, and fairer now
Ye seem to me than ever.
Back to your shades again, and fairer now
Ye seem to me than ever.
First I turn
Where yon tall spire gleams white above the trees:
I seek the rustic porch, and pass along
The thick dark avenue of mournful yews.
Where yon tall spire gleams white above the trees:
I seek the rustic porch, and pass along
The thick dark avenue of mournful yews.
How many, beautiful and gay, have trod
Beneath your shade, dark boughs, in life's bright bloom,
And after cold and silent to their graves!
The gloom of centuries is spread around ye.
Beneath your shade, dark boughs, in life's bright bloom,
And after cold and silent to their graves!
The gloom of centuries is spread around ye.
One simple grave attracts me: underneath
The loftiest elm that throws its giant shadow
Beyond the tall stone, there thy bones are laid—
Thou, whose pure soul so little earth had tainted;—
Whose life was one long day of charity,
Simple and guileless, deeming all as free
From falsehood as thyself! And here she lies,
Whose smiles I loved to greet, and who ne'er looked
Upon me but in kindness:—rest in peace!
Here no intruding foot shall press the sod
Where ye repose, save when some blooming child
Has stray'd into the solitude, and bounds,
With light step, o'er the dwellings of the dead—
Unthinking that perhaps it passes by
The home of one to whom its innocence
Was dear,—till, wearied with its sportive toil,
It rests its glowing cheek upon the turf,
And sleeps in calmness.
The loftiest elm that throws its giant shadow
Beyond the tall stone, there thy bones are laid—
Thou, whose pure soul so little earth had tainted;—
Whose life was one long day of charity,
81
From falsehood as thyself! And here she lies,
Whose smiles I loved to greet, and who ne'er looked
Upon me but in kindness:—rest in peace!
Here no intruding foot shall press the sod
Where ye repose, save when some blooming child
Has stray'd into the solitude, and bounds,
With light step, o'er the dwellings of the dead—
Unthinking that perhaps it passes by
The home of one to whom its innocence
Was dear,—till, wearied with its sportive toil,
It rests its glowing cheek upon the turf,
And sleeps in calmness.
| Songs of a Stranger | |