sleeps in silence 'neath this mound?
Whose dust does here repose?
Is it unholy, sinful ground,--
And blood upon the rose?
Does there a hero sleep beneath?
Some chief of spotless fame?
The flowrets here no fragrance breathe,
No marble speaks his name!
Does an historian's wither'd form,
Here lie so dark and low?
I hear no requiem but the storm,
No mournful sound of wo.
Is it a humble, Christian child,
Who free from care lies here?
Around this spot, thus drear and wild--
And not one friendly tear!
No,--the dust that moulders here enshrin'd,
Was here an infant heart,--
A wreath by beauty's hand entwin'd
Did love to it impart.
The parents wept about its grave
And friends its loss did mourn;
But tears could not their darling save,
It died,--they thought it wrong.