Poems (Cook)/The Churchyard Stile

by Eliza Cook

THE CHURCHYARD STILE

I left thee young and gay, Mary,
 When last the thorn was white;
I went upon my way, Mary,
 And all the world seem'd bright;
For though my love had ne'er been told,
 Yet, yet, I saw thy form
Beside me, in the midnight watch;
 Above me, in the storm.
And many a blissful dream I had,
 That brought thy gentle smile,
Just as it came when last we lean'd
 Upon the Churchyard Stile.

I'm here to seek thee now, Mary,
 As all I love the best;
To fondly tell thee how, Mary,
 I've hid thee in my breast.
I came to yield thee up my heart,
 With hope, and truth, and joy,
And crown with Manhood's honest faith
 The feelings of the Boy.
I breathed thy name, but every pulse
 Grew still and cold the while;
For I was told thou wert asleep,
 Just by the Churchyard Stile.

My messmates deem'd me brave, Mary,
 Upon the sinking ship;
But flowers o'er thy grave, Mary,
 Have power to blanch my lip.
I felt no throb of quailing fear
 Amid the wrecking surf;
But pale and weak I tremble here,
 Upon the osier'd turf.
I came to meet thy happy face,
 And woo thy gleesome smile;
And only find thy resting-place
 Close by the Churchyard Stile.

Oh! years may pass away, Mary,
 And sorrow lose its sting;
For Time is kind, they say, Mary,
 And flies with healing wing;
The world may make me old and wise,
 And hope may have new birth;
And other joys and other ties
 May link me to the earth;
But Memory, living to the last,
 Shall treasure up thy smile,
That call'd me back to find thy grave
 Close to the Churchyard Stile.