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AT AN OLD GRAVE.
As o'er any queen who lies crowned and dead! It may be the innocent natures knowThat as well God's purpose such life fulfils As the lives that lead into lofty tombs.
For haply the simple life of Ruth, Unthrilled by a lover's tender touch,Unfilled by a mother's sweet content, Fed with no honeyed joys at all,Reached to the heart of things, in truth, And moulded divine results as muchAs the life to which an empire bent, While it held the same brown dust in thrall!
The low cloud blushed and burned to see The sun that over her hovered at last;Soon would the dews shine all about, And the great procession of stars wouldAs much for her still, I said, as for me,— While I stayed till the sweet-breathed cattle passed.Nor yet has her murmur quite died out That whispers along my lingering rhyme!
