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In the
village churchyard she lies,
Dust is in her bautiful
eyes,
No more she breathes, nor feels, nor stirs;
At her feet and at her head
Lies a slave to attend
the dead,
But their dust is white as hers.
Was
she, a lady of high degree,
So much in love with the
vanity
And foolish pomp of this world of ours?
Or
was it Christian charity,
And lowliness and humility,
The richest and rarest of all dowers?
Who shall tell
us? No one speaks;
No color shoots into those cheeks,
Either of anger or of pride,
At the rude question we
have asked;
Nor will the mystery be unmasked
By
those who are sleeping at her side.
Hereafter? -And
do you think to look
On the terrible pages of that
Book
To find her failings, faults, and errors?
Ah,
you will then have other cares,
In your own
shortcomings and despairs,
In your own secret sins
and terrors!
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