The Old Churchyard.
The sun has sunk behind the hills,
And upward throws his golden light,
While shadows creep adown the glen
To gather in the coming night.
On vantage ground, in pensive mood,
I stand upon the heathery brae,
And see the workers quit their toil,
“And weary, homeward, wend their way.”
Mine eyes behold the old Churchyard,
Wherein now mouldering lies the dust
Of men and women whom I knew,
So kindly-natured, good, and just.
They lived their lives ’mid tranquil scenes,
Like bloom on flowers they passed away;
Their ashes lie ’neath the greening sod;
Their spirits—where are they?
I know not, therefore cannot tell;
No man can see beyond the tomb;
I live in hope that by-and-bye
All kindred spirits may commune.