NUNC LIBERA ME."
Her quiet resting-place is far away,
None dwelling there can tell you her sad story:
The stones are mute. The stones could only say,
"A humble spirit passed away to glory."
She loved the murmur of this mighty town,
The lark rejoiced her from its lattice prison;
A streamlet soothes her now,—the bird has flown,—
Some dust is waiting there—a soul has risen.
No city smoke to stain the heather bells,—
Sigh, gentle winds, around my lone love sleeping,—
She bore her burthen here, but now she dwells
Where scorner never came, and none are weeping.
O cough! O cruel cough! O gasping breath!
These arms were round my darling at the latest:
All scenes of death are woe—but painful death
In those we dearly love is surely greatest!
I could not die. HE willed it otherwise;
My lot is here, and sorrow, wearing older,
Weighs down the heart, but does not fill the eyes,
And even friends may think that I am colder.
I might have been more kind, more tender; now
Repining wrings my bosom. I am grateful
No eye can see this mark upon my brow,
Yet even gay companionship is hateful.
But when at times I steal away from these,
And find her grave, and pray to be forgiven,
And when I watch beside her on my knees,
I think I am a little nearer heaven.