Page:The Soul of a Century.djvu/29



Along the old grave yard A travelled path winds high, Over this, bent with grief, A widow passes by.

Mourning softly, bitterly The loss of one so dear Where she had only recently Wept o’er her husband’s bier.

Out from the white estate Across the winding path, A handsome youth rides forth, A feather in his hat.

Cry not, and stop lamenting, Young widow in dismay, For shame to dim your pretty eyes, Listen to what I say.