Classic Poem

I love to hear the gurgling stream
That winds through yonder grove,
Because its murmurs always seem
To whisper of my love:
And oft, at dewey eve, along
Its flowery banks I've strayed,
To listen to the night-bird's song,
That mourn'd the absent maid.

Sweet was it once, at moonlight hour,
With Mary there to rove;
Or, pausing in some verdant bower,
Repeat our vows of love;
While Cynthia lent her silver beam
To gild the rippling wave,
Which, ah! how little did I deem
Would glide by Mary's grave!

Our vows of love in vain we speak —
Her soul hath wing'd its flight
Where tears are wiped from every cheek,
And every eye is bright:
But though this heart, this aching heart,
With anguish now is riven,
We yet shall meet, no more to part,
Where Mary dwells — in heaven.

Above the grave where Mary sleeps
One lonely flowret grows;
And oft to Fancy's eye it weeps —
I love that lonely rose!
Its leaves recall the hue to mind
That mantled on her face;
Its stem, that waves to every wind,
Her meekness and her grace.

That fragile flower must soon decay,
And on the cold earth lie;
Frail child of morning's sunny ray,
Like Mary, born to die!
But not like her shall it revive
In renovated bloom,
Through all eternity to live,
Triumphant o'er the tomb.

God! thou hast given a promise blest
To soothe the mourner here;
To yield the heavy-laden rest,
And dry the trickling tear:
Guided by that we well may stem
Awhile life's stormy wave;
Thy Word — the Star of Bethlehem,
Sheds light beyond the grave!