Dear Ellen did not weep at all,
But closelier did she cling,

And turned her face and looked as if
She saw some frightful thing.

You see that grave? The Lord he gives,

Except that grave, you scarce see one

That was not dug by me;

I'd rather dance upon 'em all

Than tread upon these three!

"Ay, Sexton! 'tis a touching tale." You, Sir! are but a lad;

This month I'm in my seventieth year, And still it makes me sad.

And Mary's sister told it me,

For three good hours and more;

Though I had heard it, in the main,
From Edward's self before.

Well! it passed off! the gentle Ellen
Did well nigh dote on Mary;
And she went oftener than before,
And Mary loved her more and more
She managed all the dairy.

To market she on market-days,
To church on Sundays came;

All seemed the same: all seemed so, Sir!
But all was not the same!

Had Ellen lost her mirth? Oh! no!
But she was seldom cheerful;
And Edward looked as if he thought
That Ellen's mirth was fearful.

When by herself, she to herself

Must sing some merry rhyme ;

She could not now be glad for hours,

Yet silent all the time.

And when she soothed her friend, through all

Her soothing words 'twas plain

She had a sore grief of her own,
A haunting in her brain.

And oft she said, I'm not grown thin!

And then her wrist she spanned; And once when Mary was down-cast, She took her by the hand,

And gazed upon her, and at first

She gently pressed her hand;

Then harder, till her grasp at length
Did gripe like a convulsion!
Alas! said she, we ne'er can be
Made happy by compulsion!

And once her both arms suddenly
Round Mary's neck she flung,
And her heart panted, and she felt
The words upon her tongue.

She felt them coming, but no power
Had she the words to smother;
And with a kind of shriek she cried,
"Oh Christ! you're like your mother!"

So gentle Ellen now no more

Could make this sad house cheery;

And Mary's melancholy ways

Drove Edward wild and weary.

Lingering he raised his latch at eve,
Though tired in heart and limb:
He loved no other place, and yet
Home was no home to him.

One evening he took up a book,
And nothing in it read;

Then flung it down, and groaning cried,
"Oh! Heaven! that I were dead."

Mary looked up into his face,

And nothing to him said;

She tried to smile, and on his arm
Mournfully leaned her head.

And he burst into tears, and fell
Upon his knees in prayer:

"Her heart is broke! O God! my grief,
It is too great to bear!"

'Twas such a foggy time as makes

Old sextons, Sir! like me,

Rest on their spades to cough; the spring
Was late uncommonly.

And then the hot days, all at once,
They came, we knew not how:
You looked about for shade, when scarce
A leaf was on a bough.

It happened then ('twas in the bower
A furlong up the wood :

Perhaps you know the place, and yet
I scarce know how you should,-)

No path leads thither, 'tis not nigh
To any pasture-plot;

But clustered near the chattering brook,
Lone hollies marked the spot.

Those hollies of themselves a shape
As of an arbour took,

A close, round arbour; and it stands
Not three strides from a brook.

Within this arbour, which was still

With scarlet berries hung,

Were these three friends, one Sunday morn

Just as the first bell rung.

'Tis sweet to hear a brook, 'tis sweet To hear the Sabbath-bell,

'Tis sweet to hear them both at once,
Deep in a woody dell.

His limbs along the moss, his head
Upon a mossy heap,

With shut-up senses, Edward lay:
That brook e'en on a working day
Might chatter one to sleep.

And he had passed a restless night,
And was not well in health;
The women sat down by his side,
And talked as 'twere by stealth.

"The sun peeps through the close thick leaves,

See, dearest Ellen! see!

'Tis in the leaves, a little sun,

No bigger than your ee ;

"A tiny sun, and it has got

A perfect glory too;

Ten thousand threads and hairs of light,

Make up a glory, gay and bright,

Round that small orb, so blue."

And then they argued of those rays,
What colour they might be;

Says this, "they're mostly green ;" says that,

66

They're amber-like to me."

So they sat chatting, while bad thoughts
Were troubling Edward's rest;

But soon they heard his hard quick pants,
And the thumping in his breast.