“ The Last Home.
“ Upon an estuary-bank1
Which all unaltered seems,2
Since first the thirsty ocean drank3
The unsuspecting streams,4
There is a little lone churchyard5
So backed by hills and trees,6
As if shut in from earth’s regard,7
And open to the sea’s.8
I never knew the angry waves,9
When angriest, do more10
Than fling their white foam over graves11
That seemed to love their roar.12
But when their calmest murmurs breathe13
O’er epitaph and urn,14
What tuft of grass or flower beneath15
But whispers in return.16
And converse such as theirs, above17
The dwellings of the dead,18
To man, in words of hope and love,19
May be interpreted.20
The bellowing voices well may pause21
Full oft, for answering sounds,22
From one who to their mercy owes23
So many of her mounds.24
All gaze on one gigantic heap,25
Upgrowing like a wen,26
Beneath whose swollen surface sleep27
Some scores of shipwrecked men,28
The church is old, and ivy-green,29
With its low tower detached ;30
And near it one low roof is seen,31
Half slated and half thatched.32
Whose apple-tree, reared from a shoot,33
As o’er the hedge it waves,34
Bearing its load of mellow fruit,35
Oft drops them on the graves.36
Lately this consecrated ground,37
Wave-wooed, bee-haunted scene,38
Has numbered here another mound,39
Where all had long been green.40
A native of this bower and beach41
Is here consigned to earth,42
Whence faintest whispers still may reach43
The chamber of her birth.44
That chamber joy has never crossed45
The threshold of, nor smiled46
Upon one moment, since it lost47
Its own beloved child.48
They brought her home—for everything,49
Bright shell and pebbly gem,50
And flower, that she had loved—to sing51
Her fitting requiem.52
They brought her home—all they could bring53
Of her, in that black hearse—54
Whose spirit waves a full-fledged wing55
Above our universe.56
The home of infancy and youth57
Is now her final rest ;58
Beneath a stone that tells the truth—59
‘ The needy knew her best.’ ”60