But—the cold grass waves o’er thy sweet young head;
Would that the shroud that wraps thy fair form, Mary,
Wrapped mine instead!
In vain my heart its bitter thoughts would parry,
An adder’s grasp about its chords seem curled,
For you were all I ever thought of, Mary—
Were all I doted on in this wide world!
And yet, I’d sigh not while thy fate I ponder,
Did memory only bring thee to my eyes
Pale as thou sleepest in the church-yard yonder—