by Hannah Flagg Gould
Saw ye the mourner reclining
Where the damp earth was her bed,
And the young ivy-vines, twining,
Mantled the house of the dead?
Heard ye the voice of the weeper
Rise with the herald of day,
Calling aloud to the sleeper,
Bidding him hasten away?
Felt ye her wild notes of sorrow
Thrilling your bosom with pain?
Dark is the wanderer's morrow --
So she must slumber again!
Dim is her glimmering taper;
Fast she is sinking to rest;
Soon shall the evening vapor
Gather unfelt, o'er her breast.
Sorrow too long has been wearing
String after string from her heart;
Now, her own finger is bearing
On the last thread that can part!
Cold was the draught she has tasted;
Pale are the lips it has passed;
Now, every sand-grain is wasted;
Death has released her at last!
She, who so lately was weeping,
Wounded, despairing and lost,
At rest is now quietly sleeping!
Life's troubled waters are crossed!
Source:Poems By Miss H. F. Gould. Volume 1.
Hilliard, Gray, & Co., Boston