Page:Pleasant Memories.pdf/250

Of raven tresses 'scaped amid the toil
From their accustomed boundary; but her eyes,
None saw them, for she heeded not the tread
Of passers-by. Her business was with those
Who slept below. 'T would seem a quiet grief,
And yet absorbing; such as a young heart
Might for a sister feel, ere it had learned
A deeper love. Come to yon stately dome,
With arch and turret, every shapely stone.
Breathing the legends of the Paraclete,
Where slumber Abelard and Heloise,
'Neath such a world of wreaths, that scarce ye see
Their marble forms recumbent, side by side.
On! On!—this populous spot hath many a fane,
To win the stranger's admiration. See
La Fontaine's fox-crowned cenotaph; and his
Whose "Mécanique Celeste" hath writ his name
Among the stars; and hers who, soaring high
In silken globe, found a strange death by fire
Amid the clouds.
                        The dead of distant lands
Are gathered here. In pomp of sculpture sleeps
The Russian Demidoff, and Britain's sons
Have crossed the foaming sea, to leave their dust
In a strange soil. Yea, from my own far land
They've wandered here, to die. Were there not graves
Enough among our forests? by the marge