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THE LONELY GRAVE.
A lonely grave,—none care for it, none knowHis name who all these seasons sleeps below.Only the heedless hunter pauses thereTo sight some wing that quivers in the air,Nor feels the presence of an ancient painThat yearns about the unknown spot in vain.Only the noonday sunshine comes, the rain;The golden moons above it wax and wane;The wild deer couch beside it, and the snakeGlitters and slips along beneath the brake;While from the dagger-tree the bubbling songOf mocking-birds makes music all night long.
But far on Northern hills a woman growsThe sadder with each gust the south wind blows;A mother listens, and with eager earsThe step long hushed in every footfall hears;And friends, flower-laden, in a martial routAmong the fortunate graves go in and out.Ah, if to-day one violet fell here,One bluebell dropped its heaven-holding tear,One homely door-stone blossom shed its breath,
