| |
| BY yon still river, where the wave | |
| Is winding slow at evening’s close, | |
| The beech, upon a nameless grave. | |
| its sadly-moving shadow throws. | |
| |
| O’er the fair woods the sun looks down | 5 |
| Upon the many-twinkling leaves, | |
| And twilight’s mellow shades are brown, | |
| Where darkly the green turf upheaves. | |
| |
| The river glides in silence there, | |
| And hardly waves the sapling tree: | 10 |
| Sweet flowers are springing, and the air | |
| Is full of balm—but where is she! | |
| |
| They bade her wed a son of pride, | |
| And leave the hope she cherished long: | |
| She loved but one-and would not hide | 15 |
| A love which knew a wrong. | |
| |
| And months went sadly on-and years: | |
| And she was wasting day by day: | |
| At length she died—and many tears | |
| Were shed, that she should pass away. | 20 |
| |
| Then came a gray old man, and knelt | |
| With bitter weeping by her tomb: | |
| And others mourned for him, who felt | |
| That he had sealed a daughter’s doom. | |
| |
| The funeral train has long past on, | 25 |
| And time wiped dry the father’s tear! | |
| Farewell—lost maiden!—there is one | |
| That mourns thee yet—and he is here. | |
| |
