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THE BURIAL IN THE WILDERNESS.
Of the dark wilderness, where never eye
Of kindred might weep o'er it—where no hand
Would plant the flowers she ever loved in life,
Above her grave?
      Had England's wide-spread realm
No grave for her fair daughter? Had the white
And marble tombs that stood long centuries,
Near her ancestral halls, many and wide,
No space remaining for her father's child?

Aye, there was room enough, full space they had,
Full beyond measure, for her fragile form,
And kindred dust—but when she sought to kneel,
As she would do on many a starry eve,
Beside the graves of her dead ancestors,
And pray the spirits of the mighty dead
To act as ministering angels to her heart,
And guard her from the ills that hovered round
The weakest of her race—at such a time,
A shadowy hand would beckon her away,
And in her startled ear a solemn voice,
Solemn, yet most distinct would whisper "Go!"
And from the secret chambers of her soul,
The mandate was sent forth—and from the vales,
The giant mountains and the lofty hills,
The mighty rivers, the ennobling streams,
There came a voice, that rose and swelled, until
No other sound was heard in all the earth.
And she did go!
+>But where?