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Show Iteraer.ibrance Near the foot of a lordly mountain, Washed by a lakelet's wave, Within sound of a dripping fountain, Is a lonely little grave. The sun in golden splendor Peeps from it's lofty height, And smiles with a look as tender As the moon's pale rays at night. Lonely and sad is the mother. Fate willed they should part; Deep are the sighs of the lover, Broken the father's heart. Yearning, sorrow and sadness, Heart throbs, broken sighs. Longing akin to madness, Tears that bedim the eyes. One of earth's fairest daughters, Worthy the love of a king. And pure as the crystal waters That flow from the mountain spring. Calmly she bore her affliction With fortitude born of the skies, And God's own benediction Shown from her soulful eyes. We, on whom she bestowed her love In silence kiss the rod, Believing that she is happy above In the home of the Living God. So here in the hush of the even time I bow o'er this hallowed spot, And plant, as I list' to a distant chime, A rose and for-gct-me-not. W. M. WILSON. |