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.