Anon she advanced to a new tomb that lay
By the churchyard path, and there kneeling did stay,
While she planted the flowers with hands so clear,
And her looks were replete of meekness and fear.
The tears she would dry from eyelids fair
With a napkin so snow-white its hue and so rare;
And I heard a voice, that sadden’d my mind,
While it smote the breeze with words of this kind:—
“Here lieth in peace and quiet the one
I loved as dear as the soul of my own;
But death did us part to my endless woe,
Just when each to the other his hand would bestow.
Here resteth from turmoil, and sorrow to be,
The whole that in this world was precious to me;
Grow sweetly, ye flowers! and fair on his tomb,
Altho’ you’ll ne’er rival his beauty and bloom.
He erst received from me gifts that were more dear,
My hand for a promise—and a lock of my hair,
With total concurrence my portion to bear
Of his weal or his woe, whether cloudy or fair.
While sitting beside him how great my content,
In this place where my heart is evermore bent;
If I should e’er travel the wide globe around,
To this as their centre my thoughts would rebound.
Altho’ from the earth thou dost welcome nor chide,
Nor smilest as once thou didst smile on thy bride;
And yet my beloved! ’tis comfort to me,
To sit but a moment so near to thee.
Thy eyes bright and tender my mind now doth see,
And remembers thy speech like the honey to me;
Thy grave I’ll embrace though the whole world beheld,
That all may attest the love we once held.”
THE EWE.
By rev. Daniel Evans, B.D.