Then she, upon the covered grave,
The grass-grown grave, did lie,
A tomb not girt by English wave
Nor arched by English sky.
The sod was sparkling bright with dew,
But brighter still with tears;
That welled from mortal grief, I knew
Which never heals with years.
And if he came not for her woe,
He would not now return;
He would not leave his sleep below,
When she had ceased to mourn.
O Innocence, that cannot live
With heart-wrung anguish long,
Dear childhood's innocence forgive,
For I have done thee wrong!
The bright rosebuds, those hawthorn shrouds
Within their perfumed bower,
Have never closed beneath a cloud,
Nor bent beneath a shower.
Had darkness once obscured their sun
Or kind dew turned to rain,
No storm-cleared sky that ever shone
Could win such bliss again.
May 17, 1842.
