The Martyr’s Grave

The moss is green up­on the stone;

The stone lies hea­vy on the mold;

The spot is drea­ry

sad

and lone;

The for­est air is cold.

The sky above is wan and bleak;

The ground be­neath is brown and bare;

No liv­ing voice in­trudes to break

The tran­quil si­lence there.

Another breeze among the boughs

And then ano­ther leafy show­er

Comes rust­ling down; the sad­ness grows

More and more sad each hour.

The sha­dow of the drift­ing cloud

Falls chil­ly on these gloomy firs

Deepening the dark­ness of the wood;

Hardly a leaf­let stirs.

Quick twink­ling thro’ the lea­fy screen

The stray­ing gleams they go and come;

Half hid­den by the shade

is seen

The old and well known tomb.

Here sleeps the mar­tyr’s wea­ry head;

Here mol­ders qui­et ho­ly dust

With the wild wood moss ov­er­spread

Resting in si­lent trust.

No sum­mer flow­ers breathe sweet­ness here

It is a lone for­sak­en spot;

Round lie the leaves of au­tumn sere

The leaf that chang­es not.

Far from man’s voice of love or strife

’Tis fit that here his grave should be

In death an out­cast as in life—

Unnamed in his­to­ry.

Young hopes

young friend­ships

joys of earth

Had passed him by like sum­mer dreams;

Solemn his life had been from birth

Like march of mount­ain streams.

Changeful his lot

like yon vexed sky

When moor­land breez­es wild­ly blow

His wea­ry soul now rests on high

His bo­dy sleeps be­low.

Rest

wea­ry dust

lie here an hour;

Ere long

like blos­som from the sod

Thou shalt come forth a glo­ri­ous flow­er

Fit for the eye of God.