Yon green meadow was our place for playing
That old tree can tell of sweet things said
When around it Jane and I were straying;
She is dead!
I am fleeing,--all I loved have fled.
"Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky,
Tracing silently life's changeful story,
So familiar to my dim eye,
Points me to seven that are now in glory
There on high!
Yon white spire, a pencil on the sky.
"Oft the aisle of that old church we trod,
Guided hither by an angel mother;
Now she sleeps beneath its sacred sod;
Sire and sisters, and my little brother,
Gone to God!
Oft the aisle of that old church we trod.
"There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways;
Bless the holy lesson!--but, ah, never
Shall I hear again those songs of praise,
Those sweet voices silent now forever!
Peaceful days!
There I heard of Wisdom's pleasant ways.
"There my Mary blessed me with her hand
When our souls drank in the nuptial blessings,
Ere she hastened to the spirit-land,
Yonder turf her gentle bosom pressing;
Broken band!
There my Mary blessed me with her hand.
"I have come to see that grave once more,
And the sacred place where we delighted,
Where we worshipped, in the days of yore,
Ere the garden of my heart was blighted
To the care!
I have come to see that grave once more.
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old;
Earthly hope no longer hath a morrow,
Now, why I sit here thou hast been told."
In his eye another pearl of sorrow,
Down it rolled!
"Angel," said he sadly, "I am old.
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