From a little grave I know.
THE LAST THOUGHT.
It's weary lying here,
While my throbbing forehead echoes all the hum of London near,
And oh! my heart is heavy, in this dull and darkened room,
When I think about our village, where the orchards are in bloom—
Our little red-roofed village, where the cherry orchards are—
So far away, so far!