MY FATHER'S GRAVE.

It is a sweet and shady spot Beneath the aged trees, Where perfumed wild flowers lowly bend Unto the passing breeze; And joyous song-birds warble there Rich music to the sunny air, And many a golden-tinted beam Fails on the spot like childhood's dream. The moss-clad church is standing there, The stream goes laughing by, Sending its gurgling music out Along a summer sky; The rose has found a dwelling here Beside the coffin and the bier; And here the lily rears its head, Within this Eden of the dead. The sunlight glances on the scene With many a sombre hue, Caught from the cypress near the stream, Or from the funeral yew; And, spirit-like, above each stone Is heard the night-wind's whispered tone, As if the spirit lingered there, Enchanted with a scene so fair. The wild bee revels 'mid the flowers That climb the ruined wall, And, gently drooping, shroud the tomb With Nature's fairest pall; And dirge-like sings the trickling rill, At evening's hour when all is still; Whilst echo answers back again In mimic notes the plaintive strain. But moonlight gilds the scene anew, Now all is hushed and calm; The very winds seem sunk to rest, O'erladen with their balm; The stars, pale watchers of the night, Look brightly out on such a sight; Whilst from the hill the bird's low wail Is wafted on the evening gale. Be mine the lot, when life's dull day Has drawn unto a close, And dreams of Love, and hopes of Fame, Have sunk to calm repose, By all forgot, to rest my head Unmarked beside the silent dead; Hushed by the murmurs of the wave That moans around my Father's Grave.