In a Country Churchyard. ’Mid waving grass the broken headstones lie ; The carven cross-bones show, the blades between, And half-effaced, the once-known names are seen ’Neath bright-hued mosses, clinging tenderly. No flower-decked mound here charms the passer-by ; The dead sleep lost below the exuberant green ; None cares to read what once their lives had been ; Their words, their deeds, have passed from memory. It hurts our tender vanity to know That time may bring us to the same cold plight, When we and all we love have passed from sight, And o’er our heads the untended grasses grow. The daily tide of life may ebb and flow, But we shall rest within oblivion’s night. C. G.