65
DIRGE.
Where shall we make her grave?
—Oh! where the wild-flowers wave
In the free air!
Where shower and singing-bird
Midst the young leaves are heard—
There—lay her there!
Harsh was the world to her—
Now may sleep minister
Balm for each ill:
Low on sweet nature's breast,
Let the meek heart find rest,
Deep, deep and still!
F
