Page:Cheskian Anthology.pdf/110

 that mountain—in yon aisle,

A choir of priests outpour

Hymns—and five paces from the church,

The green-sod wraps her o'er.

let me mourn, and let me weep—

And to her grave I’ll go—

And there eternal watches keep,

Communing with my woe.

then my eye shall shed- dark tears,

Till they are clos’d in death,

And time shall hang upon my bier

That fatal rosemary-wreath.