THE LONELY GRAVE.
Blood-red the roses blossom in the dell,The bosky place where once the battle fell;Tall have the grasses grown since then, and rankThe ferns, fed with the ghastly dew they drank.Oh, sweet, sweet, sweet these roses of the South;Sweet these rain-lilies blowing after drouth;Sweet the wild grape, whose bunches everywhereFling spice upon the lonesome summer air;Sweet the great orange boughs and jasmine flowersIn dawn and dusk through all the visiting hoursThat troop across the hidden grave's low swellWhere the palmetto stands, a sentinel!
