CLASSICAL MODERN POETRY. 171 



Oh. at the time of prayer, 

 When you look round and see a vacant seat, 

 You will not wait there for my coming feet 



You'll miss me there ! " 

 "Father ! I'm going home 

 To the good home you spoke of, that bless'd land 

 Where it is one bright summer always, and 



Storms do not come. 

 I must be happy then : 



From pain and death you say I shall be free 

 That sickness never enters there, and we 



Shall meet again ! " 

 " Brother ! the little spot 

 I used to call my garden, where long hours 

 We've stay'd to watch the budding things and flowers, 



Forget it not. 



Plant there some box or pine 

 Something that lives in winter, and will be 

 A verdant offering to my memory, 

 And call it mine !" 



" Sister ! my young rose-tree 

 That all the spring has been my pleasant care, 

 Just putting forth its leaves so green and fair, 



I give to thee. 

 And when its roses bloom, 

 I shall be gone away my short life done ! 

 But will you not bestow a single one 



Upon my tomb ? " 

 "Now, mother! sing the tune 

 You sang last night I'm weary, and must sleep ! 

 Who was it called my name ? Nay, do not weep, 



You'll all come soon I " 

 Morning spread over earth her rosy wings, 

 And that meek sufferer, cold and ivory pale, 

 Lay on his conch asleep ! The gentle air 

 Came through the open window, freighted with 

 The savoury labours of the early spring 

 He breathed it not ! The laugh of passers by 

 Jarr'd like a discord in some mournlul tune, 

 But marred not his slumbers. He was dead ! 

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