THE EMIGRANT'S GRAVE.
Away from her home near the wildwood,
Away from her parents' hearth;
Away from the scenes of her childhood
The loved one passed from earth.
Away from her parents' hearth;
Away from the scenes of her childhood
The loved one passed from earth.
By strangers' hands, she was carried
To her rest, in the forest drear;
While not a mourner tarried,
To shed o'er her turf, a tear.
To her rest, in the forest drear;
While not a mourner tarried,
To shed o'er her turf, a tear.
Her grave you can scarce discover,
The marble marks it not;
But angels round it hover,
To guard the holy spot.
The marble marks it not;
But angels round it hover,
To guard the holy spot.
And while bright watch they're keeping,
They softly seem to say—
"She is not dead, but sleeping,
To wake in cloudless day."
They softly seem to say—
"She is not dead, but sleeping,
To wake in cloudless day."
