A Grave

In a quiet country churchyard, where lilies grow tali and white, And vie with the moist red roses in luring the bees to light. And the big ripe briar berry, r&inwashed and sweet and gay. Tempts, with the native cherry, the bright little birds to stay. Where butterflies black as aces detour from their dainty cones, To beauty spot sculptured faces, and blot the white mar ble stones. There is in the path you enter this ideal burial plot, 'Twixt the gate and thc chu chyard centre, one badly ne glec'ed spot. A large heap claims the holdiiçg and spreads itself out and around, As if in its girth enfolding ateeasure trove 'neath the ground. No cross does it own-or coping, no verdure or even Shade, Set, solid, and Bhield-like sloping, enduring and unde cayed, For time does not seem to lessen this heap of unsightly stonr s, Ncr caused it to sink or press on Its keeping of rrame leHs bones. Who is he, I thought, that spurneth the iffortsof time to blight, Wiirj is he that mutely tnrneth all steps to the lei* and right ? I asked for the cha« and read on te pages yellow and stiff : ' A Hermit, unknown, found dead on rocks at ne oot of the cliff '