350 VOICES FROM THE WOODLANDS. 



Safe housed from life's tumultuous storm, 



Hath safely melted into dust ! 

 While mindful love would long renew 

 Its grief beneath the funeral yew. 



More meet to deck the lowly grave, 



These living plumes hy nature spread, 

 Than sahle tufts that proudly wave 



Their pompous honours o'er the dead. 

 The oak hath doffed his leafy pride, 



As frowning winter passed him by ; 

 The grass hath shrunk, the flowers have died, 



Beneath bright summer's burning sky : 

 But all to love and sorrow true, 

 Unblenching waved this funeral yew. 



I had not from the mounds below, 



Thus borne their beauteous canopy ; 

 But life has many a secret throe, 



And sad remembrance many a sigh. 

 And oh ! 'tis sweet in hours of toil, 



Amid the throb of struggling grief, 

 To rest the aching eye awhile 



Upon this dark and feathery leaf, 

 And think how softly falls the dew 

 On peaceful graves beneath the yew." 



