I have seen children playing in this place, Have heard the voice of psalms sound plaintive here, And sighs commingle with these strains of love, For memory is dewy with salt tears.
Yet some lie here unknown to all. They came Parentless, and they died and buried were By careless hands, that threw the wormy clods All hastily upon the coffin lid And then went home. Perhaps some empty chair, Like to a last year’s nest, still waits for them. Perhaps a nightly prayer still ascends Among the breathings of a family home, To hasten their return. Let us away And gather stones and place them at their heads.
Could all the tales that wait around the graves, Like volumes of wet sighs, be garnered up: How hollow would each swelling heap resound.
Here one who died in mirth, and while the laugh, The merry laugh of joy did paint his face, Death frowned, and smote the smiling victim dead.
Here one who wept to see the flushing sun Glide reddening from his window bars, and set To rise again, and dry the silent dew From his damp grave.
Here one who lingered long, And every morn the fields missed knots of flowers Borne to his bedside. And his eyes grew wild When the sun’s withering gaze stared in upon them, And he would press them to his fluttering heart, And face the mighty orb, defiant-like, As if to hurl it from the empty sky, For daring thus to blight his darling flowers. Poor fellow, he was mad.
May God forbid That clownish foot should crush the gentle clay, Or break the daisy stalks or primrose buds, That bloom beside the low white marble stone In yon lone spot.
To Jeanette.
“I did hear you talk Far above singing; after you were gone, I grew acquainted with my heart, and searched What stirred it so! Alas! I found it love.”
