Part 2 — ON HER MONUMENTAL SCROLL

On her monumental scroll Let these syllables be seen; Meek Griselda was no dream, No ideal of the soul. Softly slumbers one below, Who an equal worth could claim With that visionary dame, Drawn by poet long ago. Face more beautiful and mild Than the buried maiden bore, Never blessed the earth before, Never sorrow’s sigh beguiled. Through her lineaments of white Blushed the morning’s healthy hue, And her eye of tender blue Was with softest lustre bright. Like the Mother sad and fair, The Madonna in the skies, She was patient, sinless, wise, And of gentleness most rare. In the mansion where she died, All is silent, drear and lone; In the yard the lindens moan— Through the chambers shadows glide.