"Mary, wife of Charles Chauncy, died April 23, 1758, in the 24th year of her age."
Crushing the scarlet strawberries in the grass,I kneel to read the slanting stone. Alas!How sharp a sorrow speaks! A hundred yearsAnd more have vanished, with their smiles and tears,Since here was laid, upon an April day,Sweet Mary Chauncy in the grave away,—A hundred years since here her lover stoodBeside her grave in such despairing mood,And yet from out the vanished past I hearHis cry of anguish sounding deep and clear,And all my heart with pity melts, as thoughTo-day's bright sun were looking on his woe."Of such a wife, O righteous HeavenFrom the dark stone,—how brilliant shines the day!A low wall, over which the roses shedTheir perfumed petals, shuts the quiet deadApart a little, and the tiny squareStands in the broad and laughing field so fair,And gay green vines climb o'er the rough stone- wall,And all about the wild birds flit and call,And but a stone's-throw southward, the blue seaRolls sparkling in and sings incessantly.Lovely as any dream the peaceful place,And scarcely changed since 'on her gentle faceFor the last time on that sad April dayHe gazed, and felt, for him, all beauty layBuried with her forever. Dull to himLooked the bright world through eyes with tears so dim!"I soon shall follow the same dreary wayThat leads and opens to the coasts of day."His only hope! But when slow time had dealtFirmly with him and kindly, and he feltThe storm and stress of strong and piercing painYielding at last, and he grew calm again,Doubtless he found another mate beforeHe followed Mary to the happy shore!But none the less his grief appeals to meWho sit and listen to the singing seaThis matchless summer day, beside the stoneHe made to echo with his bitter moan,And in my eyes I feel the foolish tearsFor buried sorrow, dead a hundred years!
