And when the summer noontide hours With scorching rays the landscape spread, I mark’d thee, weaving fragrant flow’rs To deck thy mother’s silent bed! Nor, at the church-yard’s simple stone, Wert, thou, poor Urchin, left alone. XXII. I follow’d thee, along the dale And up the woodland’s shad’wy way: I heard thee tell thy mournful tale As slowly sunk the star of day: Nor, when its twinkling light had flown, Wert thou a wand’rer, all alone. XXIII. “O! yes, I was! and still shall be “A wand’rer, mourning and forlorn; “For what is all the world to me— “What are the dews and buds of morn? “Since she, who left me sad, alone “In darkness sleeps, beneath yon stone! XXIV. “No brother’s tear shall fall for me, “For I no brother ever knew; “No friend shall weep my destiny “For _friends_ are scarce, and _tears_ are few; “None do _I_ see, save on this stone “Where I will stay, and weep alone! XXV. “My Father never will return, “He rests beneath the sea-green wave; “I have no kindred left, to mourn “When I am hid in yonder grave! “_Not one!_ to dress with flow’rs the stone;— “_Then—surely_, I AM LEFT ALONE!” _The MISTLETOE._ _A CHRISTMAS TALE._ A Farmer’s Wife, both young and gay, And fresh as op’ning buds of May; Had taken to herself, a Spouse, And plighted many solemn vows, That she a faithful mate would prove, In meekness, duty, and in love! That she, despising joy and wealth, Would be, in sickness and in health, His only comfort and his Friend— But, mark the sequel,—and attend! This Farmer, as the tale is told— Was somewhat cross, and somewhat old! His, was the wintry hour of life, While summer smiled before his wife; A contrast, rather form’d to cloy The zest of matrimonial joy!