Mrs. S. A. Collins



The Country Church-Yard

by Mrs. S. A. Collins

Among the pine-trees on the hill,

The country church-yard lies;

'Tis there our hopes are buried,

      But not where memory dies.

As we gaze on the mounds before us,

We know that they each contain

A form. Yes, somebody's darling,

      Ne'er to be with them again.

We pause and read on a tomb-stone,

      "Mother dear, Good-bye."

As we pass on we read again,

      "To be with God on high."

Here stands a little tablet,

      It speaks as plain as .words.

"Our little bud has blasted,

      It is not ours, but God's."

And on a slab we read these lines,

      "Fell on the battle-field.

Mid shot and shell he bravely stood,

      To the foe he would not yield.

At last amid the battle,

      Of turmoil and of strife,

He left the ranks. No funeral train,

      But a soldier lost his life."

Here lies father, his work is done.

      Some one must take his place:

And mother rests beside him,

We miss her shining face.

Brothers and sisters are waiting

      The great awakening day,

When each shall rise to meet the forms

      Now mouldering in the clay.

Oh! What a peaceful city,

      This city of the dead.

Let's enter it with reverence.

And lowly bow the head.