THE MEMORY OF THE DEAD.
191
They have a breathing influence there,
A charm not elsewhere found;
Sad—yet it sanctifies the air,
The stream, the ground.
Then, though the wind an alter'd tone
Through the young foliage bear,
Though every flower, of something gone,
A tinge may wear:
Oh, fly it not!—no fruitless grief
Thus in their presence felt,
A record links to every leaf,
There, where they dwelt.
Still trace the path which knew their tread,
Still tend their garden bower,
Still commune with the holy dead,
In each lone hour.
