A RIFLED GRAVE AT GRAND-PRÉ.
These silent chambers, which thy dead immure,
Have felt no changes with the changing land,
Until to-day when a rude foot did stand
Within thy narrow house, the grave not sure.
Yet with no name or age that might endure,
Thy mould is gathered to the kindly sand,
Safe from the touch of desecrating hand,
The shroud no guard nor blackened bones secure.
Kind Nature has absorbed thee as her own,
Sweet fate indeed to live no other fame,
To feel the tides and seasons in their flow.
Thy story is not bitter there alone
Without a place to mark thee now, no name,
Thy empty coffin for the soulless foe.
17
