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the memorial pebbles.
The Memorial Pebbles.
ADDRESSED TO MR. JAMES MURRAY, ON VIEWING THE GRAVE OF HIS LAMENTED WIFE IN THE OLD CHURCH-YARD, AYR.
'Tis evening's hour; the sunset's crimson sheen
Falls soft and richly o'er the place of graves;
Above, heaven's canopy smiles all serene,
Whilst scarce a breeze the sacred verdure waves.
The marble tablet o'er the high-born dust,
The lowly sod that wraps more humble clay,
The upright head-stones, with their mossy crust—
All share the glory of departing day.
Falls soft and richly o'er the place of graves;
Above, heaven's canopy smiles all serene,
Whilst scarce a breeze the sacred verdure waves.
The marble tablet o'er the high-born dust,
The lowly sod that wraps more humble clay,
The upright head-stones, with their mossy crust—
All share the glory of departing day.
With footsteps slow, and solemn musing mind,
The lonely regions of the tombs I tread,
The tributes reading which the "left behind"
Rear to the memory of the loved—the dead.
Here Time hath nigh effaced the chisell'd words,
The hands which traced them, too, must long be clay;
And here a newly-lettered slab records
The name and virtues of the passed away.
The lonely regions of the tombs I tread,
The tributes reading which the "left behind"
Rear to the memory of the loved—the dead.
Here Time hath nigh effaced the chisell'd words,
The hands which traced them, too, must long be clay;
And here a newly-lettered slab records
The name and virtues of the passed away.
But what is this which meets my earnest sight—
What tale of orphan anguish here is told?
"My Mother," formed of pebbles pure and white,
A mourning child has traced upon the mould.
What tale of orphan anguish here is told?
"My Mother," formed of pebbles pure and white,
A mourning child has traced upon the mould.
