Yet all in silence mould'ring lie
In the cold grave where vapors glide,
The beggar here's as fair as he
Who rolled in wealth, or swam in pride.
'Neath a green mound there slept a youth,
Whose form in life in beauty bloom'd:
His manner sweet, his speech was truth,
But nought could save him from the tomb.
At little distance from his side,
A wild rose shed a pearly tear
O'er her who would have been his bride,
Had not dread death been thus severe.
I mus'd in silence on their fate,
And watch'd the graves where low they lie,
Reflecting on their altered state.
From nuptial bliss to mould'ring clay,
And such, methinks, the lot of all;
We picture joys with eager eye,
'Till death's damp curtains round us fall,
And silent in his arms we lie.
Beneath a verdant, grassy mound,
Where gemmed with dew the daisy weeps;
In death's cold slumber wrapped profound,
A gentle mother peaceful sleeps.
No storied urn bespeaks her worth.
No epitaph or stone is near;
But the wild flow'rs that strew the earth,
Are watered oft by many a tear.
And oh, such tribute is more dear--
Warm gushing from affection's eye,
Than the cold marble's senseless praise,
That sheds no tear--that heaves no sigh.
A little path is closely worn,
Where prattling children often stray,
And o'er their sainted mother mourn,
To shield her memory from decay.
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