Page:The Improvisatrice.pdf/281

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I must rest here—Oh lay me then By the white church in yonder glen; Amid the darkening elms, it seems, Thus silvered over by the beams Of the pale moon, a very shrine For wounded hearts—it shall be mine! There is one corner, green and lone, A dark yew over it has thrown Long, night-like boughs; 'tis thickly set With primrose and with violet. Their bloom's now past; but in the spring They will be sweet and glistening. There is a bird, too, of your clime, That sings there in the winter time; My funeral hymn his song will be, Which there are none to chant, save he.