When in her way she meets them, they appear
Peculiar people - death has made them dear.
He named his Friend, but then his hand she press’d,
And fondly whisper’d, “Thou must go to rest;”
“I go,” he said: but as he spoke, she found
His hand more cold, and fluttering was the sound!
Then gazed affrighten’d; but she caught a last,
A dying look of love, - and all was past!
She placed a decent stone his grave above,
Neatly engraved - an offering of her love;