Page:Landon in Literary Gazette 1829.pdf/25



The place is purified with hope, The hope that is of prayer; And human love, and heavenward thought, And pious faith, are there.

The wild flowers spring amid the grass; And many a stone appears, Carved by affection's memory, Wet with affection's tears.

The golden chord which binds us all Is loosed, not rent in twain; And love, and hope, and fear unite To bring the past again.

But this grave is so desolate, With no remembering stone, No fellow-graves for sympathy— ’Tis utterly alone.

I do not know who sleeps beneath, His history or name— Whether if, lonely in his life, He is in death the same:

Whether he died unloved, unmourned, The last leaf on the bough; Or if some desolated hearth Is weeping for him now.