ON HER MONUMENTAL SCROLL
On her monumental scrollLet these syllables be seen;Meek Griselda was no dream,No ideal of the soul.Softly slumbers one below,Who an equal worth could claimWith that visionary dame,Drawn by poet long ago.Face more beautiful and mildThan the buried maiden bore,Never blessed the earth before,Never sorrow’s sigh beguiled.Through her lineaments of whiteBlushed the morning’s healthy hue,And her eye of tender blueWas with softest lustre bright.Like the Mother sad and fair,The Madonna in the skies,She was patient, sinless, wise,And of gentleness most rare.In the mansion where she died,All is silent, drear and lone;In the yard the lindens moan—Through the chambers shadows glide.
On her monumental scrollLet these syllables be seen;Meek Griselda was no dream,No ideal of the soul.Softly slumbers one below,Who an equal worth could claimWith that visionary dame,Drawn by poet long ago.Face more beautiful and mildThan the buried maiden bore,Never blessed the earth before,Never sorrow’s sigh beguiled.Through her lineaments of whiteBlushed the morning’s healthy hue,And her eye of tender blueWas with softest lustre bright.Like the Mother sad and fair,The Madonna in the skies,She was patient, sinless, wise,And of gentleness most rare.In the mansion where she died,All is silent, drear and lone;In the yard the lindens moan—Through the chambers shadows glide.
On her monumental scrollLet these syllables be seen;Meek Griselda was no dream,No ideal of the soul.
On her monumental scroll
Let these syllables be seen;
Meek Griselda was no dream,
No ideal of the soul.
Softly slumbers one below,Who an equal worth could claimWith that visionary dame,Drawn by poet long ago.
Softly slumbers one below,
Who an equal worth could claim
With that visionary dame,
Drawn by poet long ago.
Face more beautiful and mildThan the buried maiden bore,Never blessed the earth before,Never sorrow’s sigh beguiled.
Face more beautiful and mild
Than the buried maiden bore,
Never blessed the earth before,
Never sorrow’s sigh beguiled.
Through her lineaments of whiteBlushed the morning’s healthy hue,And her eye of tender blueWas with softest lustre bright.
Through her lineaments of white
Blushed the morning’s healthy hue,
And her eye of tender blue
Was with softest lustre bright.
Like the Mother sad and fair,The Madonna in the skies,She was patient, sinless, wise,And of gentleness most rare.
Like the Mother sad and fair,
The Madonna in the skies,
She was patient, sinless, wise,
And of gentleness most rare.
In the mansion where she died,All is silent, drear and lone;In the yard the lindens moan—Through the chambers shadows glide.
In the mansion where she died,
All is silent, drear and lone;
In the yard the lindens moan—
Through the chambers shadows glide.