The Grave Of Mary.

By James Nack

Far, far from this grave be the footstep unholy,
Its sanctity that would presume to invade!
By all who approach it, with reverence lowly,
May homage to virtue and beauty be paid;

To virtue and beauty that almost had made her
On earth, what they now have quite made her in heaven:
For the seraphic charms, in this world that arrayed her,
To wither as soon as they bloomed were not given; --

Ah no! they were only transplanted again,
To bloom in the glorious world whence they came;
Where nothing of earth or corruption shall stain
Their splendors on high that eternally flame.

My Mary! my love! art thou hovering near
To look upon him o'er thy dust who is kneeling,
While wrung from my bosom, full many a tear
To water the grave of my Mary is stealing?

While o'er thee in passionate agony bending,
I fondly would think, from the regions above,
Thy spirit I see in its beauty descending,
To calm my wild anguish for Mary my love.