IN THE CHURCH-YARD.

Where the sun shineth,

Through the willow trees,

And the church standeth,

‘ Mid the tomb-stones white,

Planting anemones

I saw my delight.

Her mother sleepeth

Beneath the green mound;

A white cross standeth

To show man the place.

Now close to the ground

Blanche bendeth her face.

She quickly riseth

As she hears my walk,

And sadly smileth

Through mists of tears;

We mournfully talk

Of departed years.

She downward droopeth

Her beautiful head,

And a blue-bell seemeth

That blossometh down;

Trembling with dread,

Lest the sky should frown.

She dearer seemeth

Than ever before.

She gently chideth

My more distant way.

At her heart's one door

I entered to-day.

No palace standeth

As happy as this.

Love ever ruleth

Its precincts alone —

His sceptre a kiss,

And a smile his throne.

There is one Blanche feareth —

She loves not deceit —

She only wisheth

To dazzle his heart.

We promise to meet.

And separate depart.