'TIS many a year since yonder grave,
On which the fresh herbs flourish now,
Heap'd on each side its sods, and gave
View of the narrow house below.

'Twas dug as fresh a form to hold
As flow'rs new-gather'd, which are laid
In beauty on some marble cold,
And smile in death before they fade.

Then wet as many an eye for her;
In many a breast her image slept;
But Time, and thoughts more fresh and near,
With dimming hand those lines have swept.

And now, alas! to me alone
The silent letters on the stone
Recall the fairy frame,
The radiant bloom, the laughing wile,
The sweeter spirit of her smile,
Once bound with Bessey's name.

I know I should not weep thee now,--
Thy place is fill'd, thy home possess'd;
Time smooths the void, dear Maid, which thou
Departing, mad'st in many a breast.

And yet when day and toil are done,
And thought releas'd from present care
Reviews the steps that Life has run,
Thro' all the things and times that were,

I sit upon the church-yard wall,
Thy Tomb, oh Bessey, in my ken;
And start to feel the tear-drops fall
Which thoughts unworded, gather then.