BY S. D. ANDERSON.
It is a sweet and shady spot
Beneath the aged trees,
Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bend
Unto the passing breeze;
And joyous song-birds warble there
Rich music to the sunny air,
And many a golden-tinted beam
Fails on the spot like childhood's dream.
The moss-clad church is standing there,
The stream goes laughing by,
Sending its gurgling music out
Along a summer sky;
The rose has found a dwelling here
Beside the coffin and the bier;
And here the lily rears its head,
Within this Eden of the dead.
The sunlight glances on the scene
With many a sombre hue,
Caught from the cypress near the stream,
Or from the funeral yew;
And, spirit-like, above each stone
Is heard the night-wind's whispered tone,
As if the spirit lingered there,
Enchanted with a scene so fair.
The wild bee revels 'mid the flowers
That climb the ruined wall,
And, gently drooping, shroud the tomb
With Nature's fairest pall;
And dirge-like sings the trickling rill,
At evening's hour when all is still;
Whilst echo answers back again
In mimic notes the plaintive strain.
But moonlight gilds the scene anew,
Now all is hushed and calm;
The very winds seem sunk to rest,
O'erladen with their balm;
The stars, pale watchers of the night,
Look brightly out on such a sight;
Whilst from the hill the bird's low wail
Is wafted on the evening gale.
Be mine the lot, when life's dull day
Has drawn unto a close,
And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame,
Have sunk to calm repose,
By all forgot, to rest my head
Unmarked beside the silent dead;
Hushed by the murmurs of the wave
That moans around my Father's Grave.