BETA

Sonnet.

If I might choose, where my tired limbs
shall lie1
When my task here is done, the Oak’s green
crest2
Shall rise above my grave—a little mound3
Raised in some cheerful village-cemetery—4
And I could wish, that, with unceasing
sound,5
A lonely mountain rill was murmuring by—6
In music—through the long soft twilight
hours ;7
And let the hand of her, whom I love best,8
Plant round the bright green grave those
fragrant flowers,9
In whose deep bells the wild-bee loves to
rest—10
And should the Robin, from some neigh-
bouring tree,11
Pour that dear song of her’s—oh, softly
tread,12
For sure, if aught of Earth can sooth the
Dead,13
He still must love that pensive melody!14