| |
| IN the village churchyard she lies, | |
| Dust is in her beautiful eyes, | |
| No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs; | |
| At her feet and at her head | |
| Lies a slave to attend the dead, | 5 |
| But their dust is white as hers. | |
| |
| Was she, a lady of high degree, | |
| So much in love with the vanity | |
| And foolish pomp of this world of ours? | |
| Or was it Christian charity, | 10 |
| And lowliness and humility, | |
| The richest and rarest of all dowers? | |
| |
| Who shall tell us? No one speaks; | |
| No color shoots into those cheeks, | |
| Either of anger or of pride, | 15 |
| At the rude question we have asked; | |
| Nor will the mystery be unmasked | |
| By those who are sleeping at her side. | |
| |
| Hereafter?—And do you think to look | |
| On the terrible pages of that Book | 20 |
| To find her failings, faults, and errors? | |
| Ah, you will then have other cares, | |
| In your own shortcomings and despairs, | |
| In your own secret sins and terrors! | |
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