To the south of the church, and beneath yonder yew,
A pair of child-lovers I've seen,
More than once were they there, and the years of the two,
When added, might number thirteen.
They sat on the grave that has never a stone
The name of the dead to determine,
It was Life paying Death a brief visit — alone
A notable text for a sermon.
They tenderly prattled; what was it they said?
The turf on that hillock was new;
Dear Little Ones, did ye know aught of the Dead,
Or could he be heedful of you?
I wish to believe, and believe it I must,
Her father beneath them was laid:
I wish to believe,— I will take it on trust,
That father knew all that they said.
My own, you are five, very nearly the age
Of that poor little fatherless child:
And some day a true-love your heart will engage,
When on earth I my last may have smiled.
Then visit my grave, like a good little lass,
Where'er it may happen to be,
And if any daisies should peer through the grass,
Be sure they are kisses from me.
And place not a stone to distinguish my name,
For strangers to see and discuss:
But come with your lover, as these lovers came,
And talk to him sweetly of us.
And while you are smiling, your father will smile
Such a dear little daughter to have,
But mind,— O yes, mind you are happy the while —
I wish you to visit my Grave.