OUR NATIVE GRASSES. 217 



THE GRAVES OF THE EMIGRANTS. 



They sleep not where their fathers sleep, 

 In the village churchyard's bound ; 



They rest not 'neath the ivied wall 

 That shades that holy ground ; 



Nor where the solemn organ's peal 



Pours music on the breeze, 

 Through the dim aisles at evening hour, 



Or swells among the trees ; 



Nor where the turf is ever green, 

 And flowers are blooming fair 



Upon the graves of the ancient men 

 Whose children rest not there ; 



Nor where the sound of warning bell 



Floats mournfully on high, 

 And tells the tale of human woe, 



That all who live must die. 



Where, then, may rest those hardy sons 



Who left their native shore 

 To seek a home in distant lands 



Beyond the Atlantic's roar ? 



They sleep in many a lonely spot 



Where mighty forests grow, 

 Where stately oak and lofty pine 



Their darkling shadows throw. 



The wild-bird pours her matin song 



Above their lonely graves, 

 And far away in the stilly night 



Is heard the voice of waves. 



