laze
Of winter's hearth warms in the homely heart.
And oh! recall the look of faith sincere,
With which that eye would scrutinize the page
That tells us of offended God appeased
By awful sacrifice upon the cross
Of Calvary--that bids us leave a world
Immersed in darkness and in death, and seek
A better country. Ah! how oft that eye
Would turn on me, with pity's tenderest look,
And, only half-upbraiding, bid me flee
From the vain idols of my boyish heart!

It was about the same time, while still feeling the sadness of this
bereavement, that he wrote the fragment entitled

"THE RIGHTEOUS PERISHETH, AND NO MAN LAYETH IT TO HEART."

A grave I know
Where earthly show
Is not--a mound
Whose gentle round
Sustains the load
Of a fresh sod.
Its shape is rude,
And weeds intrude
Their yellow flowers--
In gayer bowers
Unknown. The grass,
A tufted mass,
Is rank and strong,
Unsmoothed and long.
No rosebud there
Embalms the air;
No lily chaste
Adorns the waste,
Nor daisy's head
Bedecks the bed.
No myrtles wave
Above that grave;
Unknown in life,
And far from strife,
He lived:--and though
The magic flow
Of genius played
Around his head,
And he could weave
"The song at eve,"
And touch the heart,
With gentlest art;
Or care beguile,
And draw the smile
Of peace from those
Who wept their woes
Yet when the love
Of Christ above
To guilty men
Was shown him--then
He left the joys
Of worldly noise,
And humbly laid
His drooping head
Nor heather-bell
Is there to tell
Of gentle friend
Who sought to lend
A sweeter sleep
To him who deep
Beneath the ground
Repose has found.
No stone of woe
Is there to show
The name, or tell
How passing well
He loved his God,
And how he trod
The humble road
That leads through sorrow
To a bright morrow
He sought the breath:
But which can give
The power to live--
Whose word alone
Can melt the stone,
Bid tumult cease,
And all be peace!
He sought not now
To wreathe his brow
With laurel bough