g, (Into at fewiMflh. 
J. A. 
T Greenwood, where, through branches green, 
The ocean’s billowy breast is seen, 
When dark the shades of evening grew, 
And all around the green hill blew 
Soft winds of Autumn’s tranquil hours, 
Faint with the breath of dying flowers, 
An infant’s little grave was made, 
In which, with bitt’rest burning tears, 
And broken-hearted sighs, was laid 
The blossom of our later years. 
Sweet place and still it is, and meet 
For the last rest of one so sweet,— 
Bower’d round with trees whose ev’ry leat 
Is eloquent of tender grief; 
And graced with flowers divinely fair, 
Which gentle hands have planted there, 
And nurtured with a sad delight, 
Not less to hallow than adorn ; 
Sweet flowers! that bent in prayer all night, 
Raise tearful eyes to Heaven at morn! 
