Poems (Cook)/The Churchyard Stile
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 formBeside 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.