BUTTERFLIES.

Once more I pass along the flowering meadow, Hear cushats call, and mark the fairy rings; Till where the lych-gate casts its cool dark shadow, I pause awhile, musing on many things; Then raise the latch, and passing through the gate, Stand in the quiet, where men rest and wait. Bees in the lime-trees do not break their sleeping; Swallows beneath church eaves disturb them not; They heed not bitter sobs or silent weeping; Cares, turmoil, griefs, regrets, they have forgot. I murmur sadly: ‘Here, then, all life ends. We lay you here to rest, and lose you, friends.’ By no rebuke is the sweet silence broken. No voice reproves me; yet a sign is sent; For from the grassy mounds there comes a token Of Life immortal—and I am content. See! the soul’s emblem meets my downcast eyes: Over the graves are hovering butterflies! G. S.