LINES, WRITTEN IN A GRAVEYARD
73
On yon green hill the cattle idly graze,
The low tinkle of their bells I hear;
While, 'neath yon tree, where I in bygone days
Have sat with one, than my own life more dear,
The low tinkle of their bells I hear;
While, 'neath yon tree, where I in bygone days
Have sat with one, than my own life more dear,
Reclines a maid with lover by her side,
Oh! does she hear words passsionate and low
As those I heard one happy eventide,
As I sat there with one now "lying low?"
Oh! does she hear words passsionate and low
As those I heard one happy eventide,
As I sat there with one now "lying low?"
And will her love dream its fruition meet,
Or will the bursting bud ne'er be a flower?
Will all that makes life dear to her, and sweet,
Be torn away in one brief, stormy hour?
Or will the bursting bud ne'er be a flower?
Will all that makes life dear to her, and sweet,
Be torn away in one brief, stormy hour?
Will her life's future, gleaming now so fair,
With stately halls where love and joy preside,
Fulfill its promise; or will it to her bear
The robes of mourning, for the robes of bride?
With stately halls where love and joy preside,
Fulfill its promise; or will it to her bear
The robes of mourning, for the robes of bride?
