148

DKATH S DOINGS.

Sad land-mark, reared by hands of earthO'er the last home of buried worth—The name—the story—may reveal,Of him who now has ceased to feelThe thrill of bliss—the throb of woe—The pang young minds are doomed to know,When Disappointment's withering glanceDissolves the spell of fond romanceThat on the heart's proud beatings hung,And songs of hope and gladness sung—Pseans that told of future fame —The heaven-born lay—the deathless name!

I read :—" Mary, the honoured wife" —Mary !—my worshipped love! the lifeOf life ! My Mary—art thou gone 1

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Another change.—Lo, now there shoneA glorious sun in Heaven;—and yetThe yew-tree's sable pall was wetWith tears of night;—and yet the mound-Not grassless now, but osier-bound—Was there;—and still the moaning galeSighed o'er that stone—that tribute frail.