By yon still river, where the wave
Is winding slow at evening’s close,
The beech, upon a nameless grave,
Its sadly-moving shadow throws.
O’er the fair woods the sun looks down
Upon the many-twinkling leaves,
And twilight’s mellow shades are brown,
Where darkly the green turf upheaves.
The river glides in silence there,
And hardly waves the sapling tree:
Sweet flowers are springing, and the air
Is full of balm,– but where is she!
They bade her wed a son of pride,
And leave the hope she cherished long:
She loved but one,– and would not hide
A love which knew no wrong.
And months went sadly on,– and years:–
And she was wasting day by day:
At length she died, — and many tears
Were shed, that she should pass away.
Then came a gray old man, and knelt
With bitter weeping by her tomb:–
And others mourned for him, who felt
That he had sealed a daughter’s doom.
The funeral train has long past on,
And time wiped dry the father’s tear!
Farewell — lost maiden! — there is one
That mourns thee yet — and he is here.
