Dirge Over a Nameless Grave
By yon still river, where the wave
Is winding slow at evening’s close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave,
Its sadly—moving shadow throws.
O’er the fair woods the sun looks down
Upon the many—twinkling leaves,
And twilight’s mellow shades are brown,
Where darkly the green turf upheaves.
The river glides in silence there,
And hardly waves the sapling tree:
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air
Is full of balm,—but where is she!
They bade her wed a son of pride,
And leave the hope she cherished long:
She loved but one,—and would not hide
A love which knew no wrong.
And months went sadly on,—and years:—
And she was wasting day by day:
At length she died, —and many tears
Were shed, that she should pass away.
Then came a gray old man, and knelt
With bitter weeping by her tomb:—
And others mourned for him, who felt
That he had sealed a daughter’s doom.
The funeral train has long past on,
And time wiped dry the father’s tear!
Farewell —lost maiden! —there is one
That mourns thee yet —and he is here.
