SCENE, A CHURCH-YARD. 177 



ford on the river Clyde. It was nature's way of taking 

 him from the world, and could scarcely be termed a 

 death of violence. Another of our fraternity lies 

 buried in this very church-yard ; but the head-stone, 

 owing to some accident or other, has been removed, 

 and I know not the exact turf under which he sleeps. 

 Nor is it of much matter ; he has lain nigh half a 

 century, and there is nought in the treasure-house of 

 our memories whereby to call up in his behalf a single, 

 solitary regret. Some brief verses, which now glance 

 across my recollection, relative to the death of one of 

 our fraternity, you will allow me on this fitting 

 occasion to repeat. 



!Kht Angler* (irabe. 



Sorrow ! sorrow ! bring it green ; 



True tears make the grass to grow ; 

 And the grief of the good, I ween, 



Is grateful to him that sleeps below. 

 Strew sweet flowers, free of blight ; 



Blossoms gathered in the dew ; 

 Should they wither before night, 



Flowers and blossoms bring anew. 



n. 



Sorrow ! sorrow ! speed away 

 To our angler's quiet mound ; 



With the old pilgrim, twilight gray, 

 Enter thou on the holy ground. 



