MARGARET.
Maidens, on this narrow bed,
Drop the flowers, but do not tread;
All that earth knew how to keep
Of Margaret is fast asleep.
Underneath the sod it lies,
With death's darkness in those eyes
That were wont to show at dawn,
Blue depths where our light was born;
For the radiant spirit flown,
Still our hearts unceasing moan—
For the radiant inmate dear,
That for one elysian year
Tarried on the earth, to see
If it might fit dwelling be
For a guest as pure as she,—
Then affrighted (woe the day!)
On swift wings, she fled away
To that country lying far,
Where the other angels are—
Fled! and left us nothing, save
To protect this little grave,
Which we keep, for love of her,
Ever unprofaned and fair.
Softly on her sacred bed
Scatter flowers, but do not tread.
