'Twas early spring; and winter lingered still On the cold summit of the snow-capt hill; The day was closing, and slow darkness stole Over the earth as sleep steals on the soul, Sealing the eyelids up--unconscious, slow, Till sleep and darkness reign, and we but know, On waking, that we slept--but may not tell; Nor marked we when sleep's darkness on us fell. A lonely stranger then bent anxious o'er A rustic gate before the cottage door-- The snow-white cottage where the chestnuts grew, And o'er its roof their arching branches threw. It was young Edmund, gazing, through his tears, On the now cheerless home of early years-- While as the grave of buried joys it stood, Its white walls shadowed through the leafless wood; The once arched woodbine waving wild and bare; The parterre, erst the object of his care, With early weeds o'ergrown; and slow decay Had changed or swept all else he loved away. Upon the sacred threshold, once his own, He silent stood, unwelcomed and unknown; Gazed, sighed, and turned away; then sadly strayed To the cold, dreamless churchyard, where were laid His parents, side by side. A change had come O'er all that he had loved: his home was dumb, And through the vale no accent met his ear That he was wont in early days to hear; While childhood's scenes fell dimly on his view, As a dull picture of a spot we knew, Where we but cold and lifeless forms can trace. But no bold truth, nor one familiar face. V. Night sat upon the graves, like gloom to gloom, As silent treading o'er each lowly tomb, Thoughtful and sad, he lonely strove to trace, Amidst the graves, his father's resting-place. And well the spot he knew; yea, it alone Was all now left that he might call his own Of all that was his kindred's; and although He looked for no proud monument to show The tomb he sought, yet mem'ry marked the spot Where slept his ancestors; and had it not, He deemed--he felt--that if his feet but trode Upon his parents' dust, the voice of God, As it of old flashed through a prophet's breast, Would in his bosom whisper, "Here they rest!" 'Twas an Enthusiast's thought;--but, oh! to tread, With darkness round us, 'midst the voiceless dead, With not an eye but Heaven's upon our face-- At such a moment, and in such a place, Seeking the dead we love--who would not feel. Yea, and believe as he did then, and kneel On friend or father's grave, and kiss the sod As in the presence of our father's God! VI.