Page:Railway rhymer.pdf/7

 Tho' bright was thy beauty, thy sun must descend, And darkness envelope the soul of thy friend; Yet sorrow is dumb, save the wail of my woe, For the tears that would soothe me refuse yet to flow

I have wept o'er the rich, but the stone on his grave Abated my grief like the ebb of the wave; But, oh! my heart's darling, no mountain of stone Can hide thy fair form from thy Morian Shehone.

Oh, where is the beauty that tilled thine abode, When bright with thy presence its four corners glowed? Thou fell'st not like leaflet in trembling decay, For rude was the tempest that tore thee away.

Oh, hadst thou not friends that would give thee their heart? With raiment and bread to enjoy and impart? While spring warmed thy bosom, and love crowned thy head, Oh, why not live happy?—Oh, why hast thou fled?

But the spoiler has come and my peace overthrown; The tyrant has broken the stay of Shehone: In the time of probation none envied thy lot, For thy kindness the wants of the poor ne'er forgot.

Since vows moved not Death peerless Mary to save, Shehone's burning tears may not enter thy grave; Then twice ev'ry year shall the maids of the vale The birth and the death of my Mary bewail.

Beneath the wide elm may her spirit he near. And teach them to rival her lovely career;— Now fades into silence, profound, sad and lone. The feeble lament of the cheerless Shehone.