He reached the spot; he startled--trembled--wept; And through his bosom wildest feelings swept. He sought a nameless grave, but o'er the place Where slept the generations of his race, A marble pillar rose. "Oh Heaven!" he cried, "Has avaricious Ruin's hand denied The parents of my heart a grave with those Of their own kindred?--have their ruthless foes Grasped this last, sacred spot we called our own? If but a weed upon that grave had grown, I would have honoured it!--have called it brother! Even for my father's sake, and thine, my mother! But that cold marble freezes up my heart, And seems to tell me that I have no part With its proud dead; while through the veil of night The name it bears yet mocks my anxious sight." Thus cried he bitterly; then, trembling, placed His finger on the marble, while he traced Its letters one by one, and o'er and o'er;-- Grew blind with eagerness, and shook the more, As with each touch, the feeling o'er him came-- The unseen letters formed his father's name! VII. While thus, with beating heart, pursuing still His anxious task, slow o'er a neighbouring hill The broad moon rose, by not a cloud concealed, Lit up the valley, and the tomb revealed!-- His parents' tomb!--and now, with wild surprise, He saw the column burst upon his eyes-- Fair, chaste, and beautiful; and on it read These lines in mem'ry of his honoured dead: "Beneath repose the virtuous and the just, Mingled in death, affection's hallowed dust. In token of their worth, this simple stone Is, as a daughter's tribute, reared by one Who loved them as such, and their name would save As virtue's record o'er their lowly grave." "Helen!" he fondly cried, "thy hand is here!" And the cold grave received his burning tear; Then knelt he o'er it--clasped his hands in prayer; But, while yet lone and fervid kneeling there, Before his eyes, upon the grave appear Primroses twain--the firstlings of the year,-- And bursting forth between the blossomed two, Twin opening buds in simple beauty grew. He gazed--he loved them as a living thing; And wondrous thoughts and strange imagining Those simple flowers spoke to his listening soul In superstition's whispers; whose control The wisest in their secret moments feel, And blush at weakness they may not reveal. VIII.