Classic Poem

'Tis a lowly grave, but it suits her best,
Since it breathes of fragrance, and speaks of rest;
And meet for her is its calm repose,
Whose life was so stormy and sad to its close.

'Tis a shady dell where they laid her form,
And the hills gather round it to break the storm,
While above her head the bending trees
Arrest the wing of each ruder breeze.

A trickling stream, as it winds below,
Hath a music of peace in its quiet flow;
And the buds that are ever in bloom above,
Tell of some minist'ring spirit's love.

It is sweet to think that, when all is o'er,
And life's fever'd pulses shall fret no more,
There still shall be one, with a fond regret,
Who will not forsake, and who cannot forget:

One kindlier heart, all untainted by earth,
That has kept the fresh bloom from its bud and its birth,
Whose tears for the sorrows of youth shall be shed,
And whose prayer shall still rise for the early dead.