Poems.
121
Some new raised stones attract my eye,
And breathe the saddened tale,
Of youth and virtue buried here,
Of beauty's cheek, now pale.
And breathe the saddened tale,
Of youth and virtue buried here,
Of beauty's cheek, now pale.
Fond hearts have mourned their early call,
Bright eyes have wept the doom
Of those they loved so fervently,
Thus hastened to the tomb.
Bright eyes have wept the doom
Of those they loved so fervently,
Thus hastened to the tomb.
Impartial archer! Death! art thou
Unerring is thy aim
The old and young, the grave and gay,
To thee, are all the same.
Unerring is thy aim
The old and young, the grave and gay,
To thee, are all the same.
None, none can tell thy arrow's course,
Unswerving from their line;
They onward speed their unseen flight,
And the victor's wreath is thine.
Unswerving from their line;
They onward speed their unseen flight,
And the victor's wreath is thine.
CHILD AT PRAYER.
Hush! the child at prayer is kneeling,
Down beside her little bed;
While, the twilight hour stealing,
Casts its shadows o'er her head.
Down beside her little bed;
While, the twilight hour stealing,
Casts its shadows o'er her head.
