The Grave of L. E. L.

"Not where the wild bee hummethAbout the mossed headstone;And at midnight the moon comethAnd looketh down alone."

Thy grave is not befitting one like thee,Sweet but impassioned songstress of the heart;They should have laid thee 'neath some spreading tree,From all but wild-wood melodies apart.They should have laid thee by some low-voiced river,Whose waves would keep for thee a soft complain,Murmuring with plaintive, dirge-like voice, foreverTo thy calm rest a wild, pathetic strain.

The clang of armor never should have rungAbove the mouldering dust of one like thee;Thou couldst not love the trumpet's brazen tongue,Who didst find life such bitter mockery;And it was mockery to lay thee there,Beneath an Eastern pavement's burning glow,With heavy tread of soldiers falling whereThe sacred tear of memory should flow.

Was there no one whose delicate sympathyCould choose for thee a holier place of rest,And o'er the heart once rich with harmony,See that the earth and the young wild-flowers prest?We may now chide the soldier's iron heelThat stamps relentlessly upon thy grave;But ah, thy living heart did often feelMore heavy griefs from which we could not save.

And thou, whose theme was ever passionate love,Whose lyre e'er sounded with a sad complainOf unrequited sympathies, that woveThy dearest happiness with thy deepest pain,Art sleeping now where not a flower may spring,A leaf may quiver, or a wild bird sing.