VII.

But turn the eye to Life's sequester'd vale, And lowly roofs remote in hamlets green. Oft in my boyhood where the moss-grown pale Fenced quiet graves, a female form was seen; Each eve she sought the melancholy ground, And lingering paused, and wistful look'd around; If yet some footstep rustled through the grass, Timorous she shrunk, and watch'd the shadow pass. Then, when the spot lay lone amidst the gloom, Crept to one grave too humble for a tomb, There silent bow'd her face above the dead, For, if in prayer, the prayer was inly said; Still as the moonbeam, paused her quiet shade, Still as the moonbeam, through the yews to fade. Whose dust thus hallow'd by so fond a care? What the grave saith not--let the heart declare.

On yonder green two orphan children play'd; By yonder rill two plighted lovers stray'd. In yonder shrine two lives were blent in one, And joy-bells chimed beneath a summer sun. Poor was their lot--their bread in labour found; No parent bless'd them, and no kindred own'd; They smiled to hear the wise their choice condemn; They loved--they loved--and love was wealth to them! Hark--one short week--again the holy bell! Still shone the sun, but dirge-like boom'd the knell; And when for that sweet world she knew before Look'd forth the bride,--she saw a grave the more. Full fifty years since then have pass'd away, Her cheek is furrow'd, and her hair is grey. Yet when she peaks of _him_ (the times are rare), Hear in her voice how youth still trembles there! The very name of that young life that died, Still heaves the bosom, and recalls the bride. Lone o'er the widow's hearth those years have fled, The daily toil still wins the daily bread; No books deck sorrow with fantastic dyes: Her fond romance her woman heart supplies; And, to the sabbath of still moments given, (Day's taskwork done)--to memory, death, and heaven, There may--(let poets answer me!) belong Thoughts of such pathos as had beggar'd song.