Page:Scenes in my Native Land.pdf/168

And yet we scarcely know their worth
    Till life is in its wane;
Then grows their love a deeper thing,
    As our lone pathway tends
Down mid the withering plants of hope,
    And graves of buried friends.

Like ready comforters they bend,
    If sorrow pales the cheek,
And to the sad, desponding heart,
    An angel's message speak;
While to the listening mourner's ear
    They fondly seem to say,
The words of those departed ones
    Who sleep in mouldering clay.

We nurse them in our casement warm
    When winter rule the year,
And see them raise their graceful form,
    The darkest day to cheer;
Amid our folded shroud they glow,
    When death hath had his will,
And o'er our pillow in the dust
    They spring, and blossom still.

Yes, o'er the cradle-bed they creep,
    With rich and sweet perfume,
Around the marriage-altar twine,
    And cheer the darksome tomb,