For she sleeps beneath the stone
Since those happy days of yore.
Thoughts of the dead always affect me beyond expression. The thought of the death of this darling girl, glorious in her own true heart, I can but feel, and glorified even more by the unfailing constancy and eternal love of him who, grown old and gray, still keeps her ever in his heart, so affected me that my own heart seemed almost broken. I could endure no more, and turned away. But as I did so,—O sweet angels of mercy! was there no escape?—there the other heaven-gifted musician, spirit-embodied, halo-enshrouded like the first, met my eyes, and I was forced against my will to listen to the most plaintive, most pathetic melody that had yet grieved my heart.—
In a grave down by the seashore,
She was laid by loving hands
Where old ocean sings a requiem
Evermore upon the sands.
There the summer tide is flowing
As I stand upon the shore,
And it calls up sacred mem’ries