And not a chord in all my heart,
But hath a broken tone.
The chords that once so wildly rung
To mirth and melody,
Are silent now, or only strung
To mournful thoughts of thee
THE GRAVE OF L. E. L.
"Not where the wild bee hummeth
About the mossed headstone;
And at midnight the moon cometh
And looketh down alone."
Thy grave is not befitting one like thee,
Sweet but impassioned songstress of the heart;
They should have laid thee 'neath some spreading tree,
From all but wild-wood melodies apart.
They should have laid thee by some low-voiced river,
Whose waves would keep for thee a soft complain,
Murmuring with plaintive, dirge-like voice, forever
To thy calm rest a wild, pathetic strain.
The clang of armor never should have rung
Above the mouldering dust of one like thee;
Thou couldst not love the trumpet's brazen tongue,
Who didst find life such bitter mockery;
And it was mockery to lay thee there,
Beneath an Eastern pavement's burning glow,
With heavy tread of soldiers falling where
The sacred tear of memory should flow.
Was there no one whose delicate sympathy
Could choose for thee a holier place of rest,
And o'er the heart once rich with harmony,
