201
MARY'S TOMB.
Now the trembling moonbeams sleep On the dew-bespangled ground;By thy narrow bed I weep, While the Virtues mourn around,
On the damp, cold earth I lie, Calling on my Mary's name;There lies buried all my joy— All my early hopes and fame.
Can the world delight me more? What is all the world to me!My sun is set, my day is o'er— Now, my love, I haste to thee.
Sweet, my Mary, is thy sleep, In thy dark, cold, narrow bed;There I soon shall cease to weep, There shall rest my weary head.
