Clouds growing denser and more dark; The rain begins to spot the ground, There is a gleam, and then a sound, Which make the children stop and hark.
And one is crying out in fear, And all are skurrying for home; O, well for him to whom doth come Its comfort, when the storms appear!
Whose carriage, drawn by sable span, Stops at the long deserted home? It is his dear ones who have come,-- The daughters of a noble man;--
And she whose life was one with his,-- Whose love transcends the bounds of death,-- Comes with a rose-boquet’s sweet breath, To greet his mem’ry with a kiss.
The heavens weep, and true hearts weep, And in the house is evening-gloom, They stand together in the room, Where he this hour did fall asleep.
Then pass into the world again, From sorrow’s holy sacrament;-- To one, who lingered near, it lent, Abiding greetings from his friend.
White clover studs the velvet lawn, And fancy forms a monument Of marble-frieze, a tracing blent With emerald and rosy dawn.
The carved stone is for the eye Of passers by, who needs be told, In characters and numbers bold, His name; when born; when he did die.
To those who love, the strolling breeze Is kindly whispering his name, And who can tell from where it came, Or whither all its music flees?
O’er those the flowers cast a spell, The dream of a midsummer night, And with their shapes and hues, delight Bring forth his name in mead and dell.
And sprightly, as from Elfin coast, There comes the boy he loved so well, His eyes and locks and forehead tell, He is his grandsire’s child the most.
The clover-blossoms, white as snow, Attract his eye, as they do mine, We gather them and lightly twine A garland for his comely brow.
Such wreath put round his tresses dark, Gives godlike aspect to the lad; He laughs and runs, his heart is glad, With gladness of a soaring lark.
I heard thee say, when life did slope: “Man is immortal in his race;” And now I see thee in this face, So radiant, so full of hope.
’Twas here, where slopes the hill into the vale, With many a roof and tow’r and heav’nward spire, And rows of lofty elms,--that wan and pale He gazed upon the sunset and its fire, Which glowed in sky and river, on the green And curving hills and far-off hazy plain; The early summer was upon the scene-- All fresh and verdant after days of rain-- He looked upon it all with wistful eye, His life’s arena ere he went to die.