Classic Poem

Out from the City's dust and roar,
You wandered through the open door;
Paused at a plaything pail and spade
Across a tiny hillock laid ;
Then noted on your dexter side
Some moneyed mourner's " love or pride,"
And so, — beyond a hawthorn-tree,
Showering its rain of rosy bloom
Alike on low and lofty tomb, —
You came upon it — suddenly.

How strange! The very grasses' growth
Around it seemed forlorn and loath;
The very ivy seemed to turn
Askance that wreathed the neighbour urn
The slab had sunk; the head declined,
And left the rails a wreck behind.
No name; you traced a " 6," — a " 7,"
Part of " affliction" and of " Heaven"
And then, in letters sharp and clear,
You read — O Irony austere! —
" Tho' lost to Sight, to Mem'ry dear. "