PHCEBE ELLIOT. 395 



ly grave. Heart-stricken, and deprived of his 

 only worldly consolation, the old man drags on a 

 hopeless and wretched existence, daily praying 

 that his sorrows may find a speedy termination 

 in the resting place of his daughter. 



I went to see the spot, on an autumnal evening, 

 and to my surprize found the fat cow-boy, with a 

 small bill-hook in his hand, employed, as he ex- 

 pressed it, in slicing away the nettles which had 

 sprung up on Phoebe's grave. The same natural 

 and beautiful sentiment filled his humble untaught 

 mind, as animated the breast of the poet,* who 

 in his early life, equally humble, thus wrote on 

 his Anna's Grave, 



But who, when I am turn'd to clay, 



Shall daily to her grave repair, 

 And pluck the ragged moss away, 



And weeds that have no business there ? 



And who, with pious hand shall bring 



The flowers she cherish'd, snow-drops cold 



And violets that unheeded spring, 

 To scatter o'er her hallow'd mould * 



* WILLIAM GIFFORD 



LONDON : PRINTED BY W. NICOL, PALL-MALL. 



