PEACE BE THINE.

When Sorrow moves with silent tread Around some mortal’s buried dust, And muses on the mouldering dead Who sleep beneath their crumbling bust, Though all unheard and all unknown The name on that sepulchral stone, She looks on its recording line, And whispers kindly, “Peace be thine!” O Lady! me thou knowest not, And what I am, or am to be; The pain and pleasure of my lot Are nought, and must be nought, to thee; Thou seest not my hopes and fears; Yet thou, perhaps, in other years, Wilt look on this recording line, And whisper kindly, “Peace be thine!”