⁠The grass-grown grave, did lie,
A tomb not girt by English wave
⁠Nor arched by English sky.

The sod was sparkling bright with dew,
⁠But brighter still with tears;
That welled from mortal grief, I knew
⁠Which never heals with years.

And if he came not for her woe,
⁠He would not now return;
He would not leave his sleep below,
⁠When she had ceased to mourn.

O Innocence, that cannot live
⁠With heart-wrung anguish long,
Dear childhood's innocence forgive,
⁠For I have done thee wrong!

The bright rosebuds, those hawthorn shrouds
⁠Within their perfumed bower,
Have never closed beneath a cloud,
⁠Nor bent beneath a shower.

Had darkness once obscured their sun
⁠Or kind dew turned to rain,
No storm-cleared sky that ever shone
⁠Could win such bliss again.

May 17, 1842.