* * * * * MARIE. BY CAROLINE F. ORNE. When we bore thee to thy grave, Marie, The flowers were springing fair, And violets, like azure gems, Were scattered every where. The blossoms of the trees, Marie, In perfumed showers fell fast, The incense of their dying breath Each light breeze floated past. For the sweet spring-tide had come, Marie, When we laid thee to thy rest, With the lily and forget-me-not, And the rose-bud on thy breast. These were thy favorite flowers, beloved, And our tears fell on them, then, For we thought that nevermore with thee Should we gather them again. Soft clouds were in the sky, Marie, Soft summer-clouds were they, They wept a few bright drops for thee, So early passed away. They floated swiftly by, beloved, Half sunshine, and half tears, Like the checkered light and shade of life, In thine own vanished years. The ever-wandering winds, Marie, That went and came at will, Brought whispered tones of love from thee, As thou wert with us still. And I almost saw thy seraph form Hovering above us there, And felt thy spirit-wing, beloved, Fanning the viewless air. We stood around thy grave, Marie, Where thy gentle form was laid; It is a pleasant place of rest Beneath the greenwood shade; The wind-flower blooms there earliest, When the earth wakes from her sleep, But the spring will come and go, beloved, Nor break thy slumber deep. Our tears fall fast for thee, Marie, Young mother and young wife, But not thine infant’s pleading tones Could call thee back to life; The soft smile lingered on thy lip, Lending its quiet grace, And the dark fringe of thy snowy lids Shadowed thy pale, calm face. We knew ’twas but thy form, Marie, We placed beneath the mould, We knew thy spirit laid it off As a garment’s cumbrous fold. But beautiful to us, beloved, Had thy spirit’s dwelling been, And ’twas hard to see the cold, cold grave So darkly close it in.