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House, even in the presence of the children, unless when On the wide hearth, standing (for he never would sit in the Now, in winter, throwing the oak logs or lightwood knots
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Our evenings, when appointed by our parents to superintend
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The peculiar accent with which he beguiled His knees to hear his stories of the past! I even love to recall Good old Jacque! How often have I climbed Grandmother, suspended from his neck, revealed him to aįaithful servant. Liberty, and his bones might have whitened on theīattlefield, had not a locket, containing the fair hair of my My grandfather fell early in our national struggle for With jest and profanity disturb the gloom. They not mar, like man, the sacred relics of memory, nor Serpent twines his silken folds among the herbage yet do The hare steals lightly over the hillocks, and the Softens, by her melancholy lay, the mockbird's tale of loveĪnd joy. Hand, has hung in graceful wreaths or clustered beautyĪround. That affection has planted, or that time, with unsparing On these secluded graves nor does the idler cull the blossoms Rolls not across this sanctuary careless curiosity treads not Stranger-dust mingles not with mine! The tumult of the city I thank thee, Heaven, that all I love are here! - that
#Bingham oh lord my inmost heart full#
In full relief, and those dark sentinels seem to guard the dead. The moon rises over the cleared fields, showing anĪmphitheatre of distant woods, the cedar-mound stands out The sleepers from his noonday beams and when The cedars with his brightest morning hue they shelter Herself the rose that blossoms on her grave! The sun gilds My noble brothers, and my poor cousin Anna, who planted Who looked like a sunbeam on the world and passedĪway my first-born, he who was twined to my heart's pulsesīy ties as strong as those which call up its natural vibration Grandparents the mother who gave me being the baby-sister, I sometimes feel a joy that all are here - my One inscription there, for we were as one. In that enclosure, sacred to the domestic dead. I have to tell of the fair, the good, and the brave who sleep One princely monument to my grandfather, and hear the tale Lead me to the spot where they may spell the inscription on Those words ring on the ear of memory! My children love to My children are frolicking on the lawn where myįirst footsteps were watched by tender parents, and one of thoseĬircling cedars. Which I sported in childhood, still spread their strong arms, and rustle Sail, passes along, and the woods echo to the song or the horn of the Occasionally a flat, with its sluggish motion, or a boat, with its urging Glitters like a lake before me, reflecting the sky and the bending foliage. “He sought him through the bands of fight, Mid many a pile of slaughtered dead, Beneath the pale moon's misty light, With form that shuddered at each tread: For every step in blood was taken.” W. In some sweet solitude like this I would That I might sleep my last long dreamless sleep.” ANNA MARIA WELLS. (Perchance the heart that deeply mourns needs not Such poor remembrancer.) The forest flowers Themselves had fondly clustered there - and white Azalias with sweet breath stood round about, Like fair young maidens mourning o'er their dead. Few gravestones told who slept beneath the turf. “Onward, O'ershadowed more by the green underwood, Some slight-raised mounds showed where the dead were laid.