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POEMS. 413
Silent o’er forgotten graves,
Still my lamp doth burn.
Oft when in the dead of night
Some sad eye was raised,
Tearful, to my placid light,
All undimmed I gazed.
On the mourner still I ’d shine,
By her prayers unmoved,
For I knew she soon would join
Him she fondly loved.
Oft when innocence opprest
Bows her troubled head,
And with anguish-stricken breast
Cries to Heaven for aid,
Then I beam more golden bright,
Knowing she-will shine
Once ’mid angels with a light
Clear and white as mine.
Mortals! ’t is decreed by Heaven
Ye like flowers should die,
Yet accept the promise given
Ere your hour draws nigh;
Know God’s faithful ones shall be
Stars of heaven bright,
When I and all these orbs with m
Long have lost our light.
*THE POETRY OF SPRING.
Now the trees their snow-capes doff,
While the swallows, light of wing,
On their airy trips set off,
Merry harbingers of spring.
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