Poems (Dodd)/The Stranger's Grave
For works with similar titles, see The Stranger's Grave.
THE STRANGER'S GRAVE.
Where the swift waves of the blue, "arrowy Rhone,"Spread wide around, then on, their pathway take,From her far home a pale young girl was borne,In search of health, to fair Geneva's lake.Is it not cruel kindness thus to takeA wounded bird from its loved nest to die?To bear it from its own green, forest-land,To fold its wings beneath a foreign sky?The stern, proud Alps lift up their towering heads,Crowned with a cold wreath of eternal snow,While blue and clear, the deep, unruffled lakeRests like a mirror for their forms below.Long on the landscape has the fair girl gazed,Till fast the day is waning into night,Round the high Alps the sunset-glories gleam,Bathing their summits in a flood of light.Why does she thus her sad eyes turn away?Far from the scene her wakened memories roam,To a white dwelling by a winding stream,In the green valleys of her distant home.Fresh o'er her grief-wrung heart are rushing now,The bright and cherished hopes of early years,Pressed are her hands upon her throbbing brow,Through her white, slender fingers steal the tears. Eudora strove to soothe the sorrowing girl,Though her own gentle heart was almost broke,Till with a smile she wiped the tears away,And calmly thus her dying wishes spoke.
"Sing to me, sister, for my eyes are closing, Sing of our wild woods, and our summer bowers;Sing of the shadows on the stream reposing, Sing of the morn, the sunshine and the flowers.Sweet on my ear thine echoed song is staying, Wafting my spirit to the skies away,And angel hands their golden harps are playing, In the blest regions of eternal day.
"Soon will this pain-worn frame from thee be taken, Which thou hast loved so well, my sister blest;Like the tired dove, all scenes of earth forsaken, Soon shall I flee away and be at rest.Think of me, sister, with thy face unshaded, By sorrow's cloud, and grief's fast falling tears,As one who fell like a frail flower faded, In the fresh-spring-time of her blooming years.
"Speak to me, sister! for my voice is failing; Speak of the happiness our youth has knownSpeak of my brother on the Ægean sailing, And of all loved ones in our childhood's home. Tell them, Eudora, of my hope in dying; Tell them my faith grew stronger to the last,On our dear Saviour's promise, sure, relying, Of a re-union when the grave is passed.
"Would I could see my father and my brother, And that sweet home beyond the waters wide;Would I might sleep beside my blessed mother, In our own church-yard by the mountain side.Kiss me, my sister! it will soon be over— The secrets of the grave, oh, who shall tell!Angels around me on their bright wings hover, I may not linger here—farewell! farewell!"
Gently her trusting spirit took its flight, From earth and all endearing ties away,When the last sunbeam passed from vale and height, And twilight stole upon the steps of day.A marble slab beside Geneva's lake, Tells where the maiden slept in youthful bloom,And there no sorrowing friends their pathway take, To twine the fresh wreath for her lonely tomb;But foreign wild-flowers in the soft winds wave,And breathe their fragrance round the stranger's grave.