12
THE DYING GIRL.
There, sister, sleep our old ancestral line,
And I would lay this weary head of mine
Beside their forms, and I would have a rose
To shed its sweetness o'er my still repose,
A rose, dear sister, planted by thy care,
Wooing the bright young birds to linger there,
And sweetly sing my mouldering form above,
To God their little songs of joy and love.
Methinks 'twould soothe my spirit thus to lie
In that dear spot beneath our natal sky,
And hear (if spirits may) on Spring's soft eves
Our natal breezes stir the dewy leaves,
Waking the melodies that were so dear
And yet so mournful to my childhood's ear.
And I would lay this weary head of mine
Beside their forms, and I would have a rose
To shed its sweetness o'er my still repose,
A rose, dear sister, planted by thy care,
Wooing the bright young birds to linger there,
And sweetly sing my mouldering form above,
To God their little songs of joy and love.
Methinks 'twould soothe my spirit thus to lie
In that dear spot beneath our natal sky,
And hear (if spirits may) on Spring's soft eves
Our natal breezes stir the dewy leaves,
Waking the melodies that were so dear
And yet so mournful to my childhood's ear.
Oh! chide me not, sweet sister, if I weep
That these fond dreams are idle. I must sleep
Here in this cold, strange land, far, far away
From all I knew and loved in life's young day,
Far from the ashes of the brave and fair
Who bore the name that we are proud to bear,
That these fond dreams are idle. I must sleep
Here in this cold, strange land, far, far away
From all I knew and loved in life's young day,
Far from the ashes of the brave and fair
Who bore the name that we are proud to bear,
