THE LONELY GRAVE.
57
Less desolate with the despair of death,For all the song, the splendid glow and gleam,This lush-leaved covert of the dead would seem!
Yet, on this sole day of the waiting year,Since love with its dear tribute comes not near,Its shadow steals through the green undergloomTo scatter armfuls of pale myrtle bloom,—A dark shape crooning o'er the lonely grave,The wildly tuned thank-offering of the slave.For here, where strange boughs move and strange wings whir,He rests upon his arms who died for her.Brighter the tide that wet the soil returns,And in the blaze of the pomegranate burns;Loftier the heavens climb from that low grave,Tenderer the air to which his breath he gave.Because he died, her children are her own;Her soul, she cries, to a white soul has grown;
