LA CHAISE. 257
��We may not ask
With hope of answer. But the time speeds on, When all shall know.
There is the lowly haunt, Where rest the poor. No towering obelisk Beareth their name. No blazoned tablet tells Their joys or sorrows. Yet t is sweet to muse Around their pillow of repose, and think That Nature mourns their loss, though man forget. The lime-tree and acacia, side by side, Spring up, in haste to do their kindly deed Of sheltering sympathy, as though they knew Their time was short.
Sweet Nature ne er forgets Her buried sons, but cheers their Summer couch With turf and dew-drops, bidding Autumn s hand Drop lingering garlands of its latest leaves, And glorious Spring from Wintry thraldom burst, To bring their type of Immortality.
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