THE PATH OF ROSES.
161
"Then, gathered grandly to his grave,
To rest among the true and brave,
In holy ground, where yew-trees wave;
"Where, from church-windows carven fair,
Float out upon the evening air
The note of praise, the voice of prayer;
"Where no vain marble mockery
Insults with loud and boastful lie
The simple soldier's memory;
"Where sometimes little children go,
And read, in whispered accent slow,
The name of him who sleeps below."
Her voice died out; like one in dreams she sat.
"Alas!" she sighed, "for what can woman do?
Her life is aimless, and her death unknown;