Classic Poem

On the death of Mrs. Indiana Demerritt, of Aztaian, Wisconsin.
Underfoot the grass is springing,
All the earth is smiling sweet;
Overhead the birds are singing
Joyful things each other greet:
While they lay thee down to rest
With thy babe upon thy breast,
Indiana.

Softly murmurs yonder river,
Hazel-bordered, down the dell,
While, with mournful sob and quiver,
Slowly, slowly, tolls the bell,
Voice of bird, or bell, or stream
Shall not break thy peaceful dream,
Indiana.

Aching hearts are throbbing, swelling,
With a deep and heavy pain;
Breasts are heaving, tears are welling,
Falling on the sod, like rain.
Sadly tolls the village bell —
Tolls each aching heart as well,
Indiana.

Quiet lives have most of beauty,
Noiseless goodness most endears.
Mother-love and wifely duty
Leave behind them saddest tears;
And the world can never know
Why thy dear ones miss thee so,
Indiana.

Drear the rooms that late did hold thee,
Where thy footsteps went and came;
Arms are empty that did fold thee,
Lips are white that spoke thy name.
Gone thy smile, thy gentle grace —
Ah, thy home's an empty place,
Indiana.

Where thy silent form reposes,
Creeping mosses, eglantine,
Glossy vines and summer roses,
Loving hands shall sadly twine,
Yet the fragrant blooms shall fall
O'er a sweeter flower than all —
Indiana.

Still and deep shall be thy slumber,
Lying with thy head so low;
Naught shall fret, no care shall cumber,
While the seasons come and go.
Fallen flower, with severed stem,
Thus I sing thy requiem,
Indiana.