Classic Poem

XI.

And when she still could hardly walk
By holding fast his wrinkled finger,
So well he loved her prattling talk,
He often from his work would linger.

XII.

Around her waist in sport he tied
The coffin-ropes for leading-strings,
And on his spade she learnt to ride,
And handled all his churchyard things.

XIII.

Henceforth on many a summer day,
While hollowing deep the sunlit grave,
Beside him he would have her stay,
And bones to be her playthings gave.

XIV.

At whiles the busied man would raise
Above the brink his bare grey head,
With quiet smile a moment gaze,
And turn to labor for the dead.

XV.

And when, slow-winding up the hill,
Between the elms, the funeral came,
Her voice would sound so cheerly shrill
As if 'twere all an infant's game.

XVI.

But when the burial rite was there,
The drooping forms, the weeping eyes,
The throb of awe, the hallowing prayer,
The sudden whisper lost in sighs,—

XVII.

The child then sought her father's side,
And spoke in wondering accents low,
And he with settled tone replied,
“Hush, hush, my dear! 'tis always so.”

XVIII.

One day upon a baby's grave
His morning's work must Simon spend,
And Jane her seat by him must have,
And all his well-known task attend.

XIX.

Soon mid the herbage soft and green
The little place of rest was made,
Whence daisy-covered meads were seen,
And where the hawthorn cast a shade.

XX.

Old Simon, almost resting now,
With slackened stroke his labor plied,
And raising oft his moistened brow,
With longer looks his darling eyed.