SELECT POETRY.

Cromwell Argus, Volume III, Issue 151, 1 October 1872, Page 7

SELECT POETRY.

UNDER THE VIOLETS. Her hands are cold ; Vr face is white : No more liar pulses eopie ami go ; Her eyes sue shut to li'V ami light. Poll I the white vesture, snow on snow, And lay her wheie the violets blow. But not beneath a graven stone, To plead for tears with alien eyes ; A slender cross of wood alone Shall say that here a maiden lies In peace beneath the peaceful skies. And grey old trees of Invest limb Shall wheel their circling shadows round x« make the scorching sunlight dim, That drinks the greenness from the ground, And drop their dead leaves on her mound. When o'er their boughs the squirrels run And through their leaves the robins call, And ripening in the autumn sun. The acorns and the chestnuts fall, Doubt not that she will heed them all/ For her the morning choir shall sin" Its matins from the branches high, And every minstrel voice of spring That trills beneath the Apii! sky, Shall greether with its earliest 'cry. When, turning round their dial track, Lasiward the lengthening shadows pass, Her little mourners clad in'blaok, The crickets, sliding through the grass, Shall pipe for her an evening mass. 'At last the rootlets of the trees Shall find the prison where she lies, And hear the buried dust thev seize In leaves and blossoms-to the skies ; So may the soul that warmed it rise! If any, born of kindlier blood, Should ask, what maiden lies below ? Say only this : A tender bud. That tried to blossom in the snow. Lies withered where the violets blow.