TO A WHIP-POOR-WILL
SINGING IN A GRAVE-YARD.
———
BY E. ANNA LEWIS.
———
Why, melancholy singer,
Dost thou hover here at eve,
Like one who loves to linger
Around the dead and grieve?
Why, in the night-time only,
Do we hear thy pensive lay?
Why art thou ever lonely—
Why shunnest the garish day?
Art thou minstrel born from Heaven,
Who comest to our earth,
At the silent hour of even,
To mock the voice of mirth;
And to soothe the sad and weary,
Who steal away to weep,
In the church-yard lone and dreary,
Or by the mountain-steep?
Art thou spirit of a maiden,
That restless roam’st the air,
With sorrow heavy laden,
And breathing thy despair?
Or one loved, but long departed,
That nightly dost draw near,
To soothe the broken-hearted,
Who are weeping, pining here?
I know not, solemn singer,
What thy deep grief may be;
Nor why thou here dost linger,
But oft thou seem’st like me—
A lonely one each morrow,
Apart from all the throng,
Whose deep and hidden sorrow
Bursts forth in plaintive song.