Classic Poem

O'Erpowered by weariness, I slept
Within the oaken-grove —
And near me grew, as morning woke
A rosemary-tree above.

I GATHERED many a rosemary-branch,
And twin'd them in a wreath,
And threw it in the flowing stream —
The fresh cool stream beneath.

And said, whoe'er this wreath shall see,
And save it from the tide,
That maiden shall my mistress be,
That maiden be my bride.

And morning came — and many a maid
Her pitcher went to fill,
They watch'd the verdant rosemary-wreath
That floated on the rill.

L UDMILA saw the flowers, and stretch'd
Her hand to grasp the wreath,
Poor dove! she fell — the stream roll'd on —
'Twas silence all — and death.

And thrice, and thrice the funeral bell
Toll'd with a heavy tone: —
And tell me — ye, who know so well,
What mortal soul is gone?

" I T is thy maiden — 'tis thy joy —
See, midst that mist of gloom,
They fit her shroud — four black-rob'd men,
They lower her in her tomb. "

O G OD belov'd! and dost thou take
My maiden in thy wrath!
Sweet bird of mercy! to her grave,
O, show me now the path.

B EHIND that mountain — in yon aisle,
A choir of priests outpour
Hymns — and five paces from the church,
The green-sod wraps her o'er.

T HEN let me mourn, and let me weep —
And to her grave I'll go —
And there eternal watches keep,
Communing with my woe.

And then my eye shall shed dark tears,
Till they are clos'd in death,
And time shall hang upon my bier
That fatal rosemary-wreath.