TWO GRAVES.
(DR. LIVINGSTONE'S AND HIS WIFE'S.)
i.
The one lies low beneath a tropic sun,
Where huge Zambesi—spent and tired of rage,
And silent after roarings, and the leap
From heights, the wonder of the world,—slow glides,
And presses ocean backward in his strength.
It holds the dust of what was once a woman,
A woman who from distant Scotland came
To help her hero-husband to maintain,—
As errant knight of God, in foremost rank,—
The peaceful war of love, and truth, and light.
Against the hordes of darkness, hate and death,
She came; and three short months had scarcely gone
When fiery fever held her in his grip;
Then death came, and from ruined body drew
The faithful soul, and rendered it to God.
No woman's hand was there to flicker cool,
And drop its balmful touches on her brow;
No thought of piteous comfort might she take,
That in some holy spot amongst the tombs
That held her kindred's ashes, hers would be
A shrine for love's devotion to adorn.
Alas! she knew that he whose hot tears fell
Upon her dying face, ay, even he,
Her husband, might not linger by her grave,
But, by the trumpet tones of duty called,
Must hasten onward, even to his death.
