JOHN STUART THOMSON
THEY hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell,The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle.I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill;I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill.I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face,And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place.The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll;The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's roll!"Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring;But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing.A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eveLook at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve.The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes;The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains.The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came;"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame."They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so;"I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go."I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep;I'd walk behind,—he was so old,—there'd be no need to weep.The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town;Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown."Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair;Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care!Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh,That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die?"The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town;They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown."I linger in the village still; I cannot go away;I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;—It is not much I say of her; I say it very low;But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know."One house there is I never pass; one way I never look;I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook;But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone,Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone."They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell,Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle.
THEY hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell,The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle.I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill;I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill.I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face,And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place.The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll;The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's roll!"Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring;But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing.A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eveLook at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve.The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes;The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains.The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came;"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame."They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so;"I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go."I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep;I'd walk behind,—he was so old,—there'd be no need to weep.The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town;Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown."Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair;Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care!Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh,That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die?"The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town;They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown."I linger in the village still; I cannot go away;I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;—It is not much I say of her; I say it very low;But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know."One house there is I never pass; one way I never look;I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook;But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone,Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone."They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell,Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle.
THEY hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell,The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle.
THEY hide within the hollows, and they creep into the dell,
The little time-stained headstones in the vale of Estabelle.
I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill;I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill.
I often looked across them when I lounged upon the hill;
I never walked among them, nor could cross the moody rill.
I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face,And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place.
I had a dread of seeing e'er the dead of pallid face,
And feared at night to meet their ghosts haunting a lonely place.
The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll;The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's roll!"
The church bell rang at night time, just one hollow, dismal toll;
The agëd by the cranny heard, and sighed: "How grows Death's roll!"
Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring;But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing.
Each meadow has its sparrow and each copse its note of spring;
But seasons through I never heard a bird in graveyard sing.
A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eveLook at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve.
A solemn man, the sexton, and 'twas he you saw at eve
Look at the sun, lay down his spade, wipe brow upon his sleeve.
The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes;The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains.
The church was old; its tower bold, and dust bedimmed the panes;
The preacher ever paused a while when fell the autumn rains.
The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came;"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame."
The goodwives ceased from musing, and some fear upon them came;
"'Tis ill to be from church to-day, when one's not blind or lame."
They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so;"I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go."
They often asked me why it was I shunned the headstones so;
"I fear them not," I said, "to some new grave with you I'll go."
I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep;I'd walk behind,—he was so old,—there'd be no need to weep.
I thought perhaps a patriarch would tire of life, and sleep;
I'd walk behind,—he was so old,—there'd be no need to weep.
The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town;Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown."
The morrow morn came darkly; there was awe within the town;
Three days of dread before they said, "'Twas pretty Alice Brown."
Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair;Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care!
Oh! 'tis not she of hazel eyes; of plaited golden hair;
Whose smiles of greeting always beamed like heaven on my care!
Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh,That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die?
Not Alice of the sidelong glance, soft heart, and tender sigh,
That kissed the rose aswoon: tell me, did God let Alice die?
"The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town;They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown."
"The third day past came darkly; there was awe within the town;
They called her long, but ne'er will wake your pretty Alice Brown."
I linger in the village still; I cannot go away;I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;—
I linger in the village still; I cannot go away;
I walk the ways alone at eve; sometimes I pause and pray;—
It is not much I say of her; I say it very low;But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know."
It is not much I say of her; I say it very low;
But somehow it is sweet to think, "Perhaps the spirits know."
One house there is I never pass; one way I never look;I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook;
One house there is I never pass; one way I never look;
I never climb the hill at eve; I never cross the brook;
But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone,Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone."
But over there, amid the rest, is carved into a stone,
Her name and day, and that sad word I feel the most: "Alone."
They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell,Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle.
They hide within the hollows and they creep into the dell,
Those little crumbling headstones in the vale of Estabelle.